


Shot Through the Heart!

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternative Universe - Marvel Fusion, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutant Powers, Secret Identity, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7068277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon City was supposed to be a pit stop, grab the info and get out sort of deal, but then Stiles meets Scott McCall and gets sidetracked. Scott makes Stiles forget that he’s a bloodthirsty mercenary with a vendetta, and it’s nice to have something normal, for a change. </p><p>Everything gets more complicated when a certain webslinger puts his spandex-clad butt between Stiles and mission completion. It doesn’t matter that it’s a nice butt, Stiles doesn’t need it hanging around and telling him not to kill things. </p><p>Scott McCall and Spider-Man? Not as mutually exclusive as Stiles anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT, so I'm pretty stoked about this. It started in August on [my Tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/tagged/spideypool+au/chrono) and since then people have been contributing to the content and being generally super freaking awesome about this AU. So here's a fic based on that idea, thrown together with sarcasm and love. 
> 
> I'm dedicating this fic to Aleshia, who jumped on it immediately with enthusiasm; El, who spent hours screaming at me about it and even [drew](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/137899569257/scott-with-smiles-and-dimpling-and-happy-d) [sketches](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/139343113317/oldshuck-late-night-quick-sketch-thingy-because); Rose and Raleigh who created [headcanons](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/127745437322/spideypool-headcanons-part-1) [and](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/127757561452/tardisrightsactivist-sciles-spideypool-au-for) [edits](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/127771393417/tardisrightsactivist-sciles-spideypool-au) for me; Kat for being the best beta and cheerleader a writer could ask for. I hope it makes everyone proud.

The situation isn’t as bad as it seems. The situation is _probably_ not as bad as it seems. It’s probably 20-40% better than it seems, even. It might look like he’s in a bad position, tied to a chair and surrounded by arms dealers with guns pointed at him, but it’s all part of the plan.

What’s the plan, you ask? Lure in the Spider. Stiles is just the big juicy fly, waiting in anticipation. That sounds weird, but it’s not as weird as it sounds. He’s staging his own meet-cute. There’s been some tension in the city. _Technically_ , Stiles is encroaching on Spider-Man’s territory. Spidey is the big superpowered boy in this part of Beacon City. Stiles is camping out and killing baddies, he can definitely see why Spider-Man would be concerned. Especially since the headlines seem dead set on blaming Spidey. Which is hilarious, because the way Stiles deals with things is so far from Spider-Man’s M.O., they’re in a whole different universe.

Not that it’s really Stiles’ concern, but -- there was a point to this internal monologue. Luring Spider-Man in. Truth be told, Stiles just wants to meet Spider-Man. Shake his hand, look at his butt. He knows all the info, everything he could dig up from various archiving systems, but he wants to know the person behind the mask.

Not _actually_ behind the mask, bros don’t reveal the secret identity of other bros. Even if they’re not bros yet. It’s only a matter of time. Stiles can be charming when he wants to be.

“How long are we waiting?” Stiles asks. He’s getting a little impatient. The leather of his suit isn’t exactly _breathable_ , it gets tight and hot around the goods if he can’t walk it out. It’s incredibly uncomfortable.

The gunman closest to him cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond, finger twitching against the trigger guard like he wants to slide it inside. Stiles knows the feeling. Even the most controlled gunman gets that stomach-jerking, trigger-happy desire. It takes awhile to grow out of. Stiles still hasn’t.

“I mean, you guys just look a little tired,” Stiles says, with a shrug. It tugs the bonds up, catching on his wrists. The ropes are loose, it’s a shoddy tie job. Obviously none of them are practiced in the art of shibari. “It’s gotta be exhausting standing there holding a semi-automatic rifle with 4 other guns belted on you. You can take a load off. This doesn’t have to be a formal affair.”

“Why did we get a talker?” asks Gunman #2. That line was totally pulled from the last Superman flick. Honestly, the lack of creativity these days is appalling. Stiles hopes he gets to kill Gunman #2, just for that.

“You’re blessed, honestly. Not everyone gets to experience my witty repartee without paying a cover fee.”

“You could just knock him out,” Gunman #3 says. This one has a poorly done blonde dye job and one of those Tony Stark goatees. Could this get more cliche?

“You could, but I don’t want to miss Spider-Man’s entrance,” Stiles says, jerking his head towards the rafters. Every gun cocks and points towards the ceiling, frantically searching for any sign of the Spider. Stiles slumps a little, kicking his feet. “Well, not _yet_.”

“How do you know _he’s_ coming?” Gunman #3 asks, with a sneer.

“Because I’m a believer,” Stiles says, firmly. “Spider-Man helps those in need. I’m in need _ergo_ , Spider-Man will appear.”

“But you’re one of ‘em, right?” Gunman #4 asks, with a jerk of his gun. This one has a spare tire and is in desperate need of a wash. Keeping them all in order is becoming exhausting. If they would stop talking, he wouldn’t have to assign them movie extra names. “Superheros don’t rescue each other.”

Stiles scoffs, loud and ugly.

“Superhero, _moi_?” he says. “If only.” Far from, actually. Not bitter about, either. Definitely not harboring a deep desire to be in on that secret club. Some people see the suit and _assume_ , but the actual superheros -- the ones _saving people_ \-- know better than that.

“What’s with the mask, then?” Gunman #3 asks, leaning over to jab Stiles with the tip of his gun. Stiles makes an offended noise, chair teetering precariously. His tip toes scramble on the floor to right himself.

“It’s so you don’t have to stare at my ugly mug. Honestly, would I wear this if I was good looking?”

“We should just knock him out,” Gunman #1 mutters. The rest of them look at each other, as if confirming that’s a good idea. It seems like the odds are certainly not in his favor. 6 head nods for knockout and one undecided gunman -- if Stiles can get out of here in relatively good shape, he’ll leave that one alive.

The guy closest to him flips his gun and lifts the butt of it threateningly. Stiles screws his eyes shut and turns his head away. It’s always a shock to be knocked out, he needs to brace himself while he has the chance.

The blow never comes.

There’s a _whizz_ through the air, and Stiles jerks his head up in time to see Spider-Man swinging from the rafters. His body arcs gracefully as he flies through the air, landing lightly in the middle of the circle. The ball of web that he shot at Gunman #1 is stuck to the wall, semi-automatic buried in its depths. All the guns in the room are cocked, a loud clatter of safeties, but Spider-Man is fast, throwing webs out and knocking away weapons as he sprints and weaves through people and bullets.

Stiles has it on good authority that Spider-Man can dodge a point-blank bullet if he’s determined enough. That’s the kind of thing that makes Stiles want to touch himself at night.

“I am a huge fan!” Stiles shouts, as Spider-Man leaps and lands on the head of Gunman #3. The baddie goes down cold, and Spider-Man grabs the gun to _boomerang_ at the nearest guard -- Unnamed Movie Extra, now Unconscious. There are guns going off, bullets ricocheting all over the place. In true Bad Guy fashion, the shots don’t hit their mark. “I really loved how you handled the Peter Hale thing. You know, when he spliced his genes with a wolf and terrorized Hale Corp as that huge monster thing.”

Spider-Man definitely has style. His form is sleek as he swings around the warehouse. There’s not much room for momentum, so he pulls himself up in short bursts and lets himself drop. It’s quick, effective. He shoots bullets out of air with little spit balls of web from his wrists (and honestly, where does that come from? Is it _in_ him, is it a device that has seemingly endless amounts of web? These are questions Stiles needs answered), ties up the remaining gunman with web.

When he’s all done, there’s guns and guys stuck to the walls of the warehouse, basic groaning from the ones on the floor before they pass out. Spider-Man drops in front of him, landing easily on the balls of his feet and crouches, head tilting like a curious puppy. There’s a _huge_ grin on Stiles’ face. Not that Spidey can see it. It’s the thought that counts.

“Huge fan,” Stiles repeats, earnestly. “It’s honestly a pleasure to meet you. I really liked the lasso web thing you did with Gunman #4, very impressive.”

“Gunman #4?” Spider-Man asks. Stiles _thinks_ he sounds amused, but it’s hard to tell without facial expressions. His voice isn’t as deep as Stiles expected, it’s kind of scratchy and top-of-the-throat sounding. Stiles likes it.

“Well, I didn’t know their names,” Stiles says, shaking out his shoulders. He tugs his wrists out of the ropes and leans forward on his knees, watching Spider-Man. Spidey startles, shifting his weight back and peering behind Stiles curiously. “C’mon, you think I can’t get out of a bad rope tie? Amateur stuff, honestly.”

Spider-Man looks at him again, big, white, creepy eye holes pointed in his direction. Spider-Man springs back, shooting web out of his wrists. The mess lands with a wet _slap_ , solid over Stiles’ torso, pinning him to the back of the chair, making him stick. Stiles scrambles, feet against the floor, trying to get leverage to bust out, but it’s no use. The shit is like steel.

Literally the big juicy fly.

“What the fuck, I thought we were getting along,” Stiles snarls, still trying to get free. “If you wanted to get kinky, you could have just _asked_. Bondage without consent is a big no-no.”

“Who are you?” Spider-Man asks, ignoring Stiles’ efforts at flirting. “Why are you here? Why are you killing people? Why did the Calaveras decide you’re worth keeping, instead of killing you and dumping you in the ocean?”

“Slow down, I don’t have the working memory space for that kind of questioning,” Stiles says. He literally doesn’t. There are entire chunks of brain matter that never healed up, on top of his persistent executive dysfunction. One question at a time.

“Who are you?”

“Getting to know me takes time, you know? More than meets the eye. Next question.”

“Why are you here?” Spidey asks, after another head tilt.

“To do my job,” Stiles says, still trying to shift out of the webbing. It’s more of a show than anything. He doesn’t like sitting there like a limp noodle while being questioned. At least Spider-Man is _engaging_ , the gunmen didn’t try to get _any_ information out of him.

“Why are you killing people?” Spider-Man asks, shoulders hunching up. Stiles knows why. Spider-Man is firmly a No Kill type of dude. While it’s commendable, Stiles doesn’t know how he does it. There are some motherfuckers you just need to _kill_.

“It’s _my job_ ,” Stiles says. He’s honestly surprised that Spider-Man already doesn’t know this information. Did he not bother researching? The suit’s pretty much a dead giveaway. There are at least 3 government databases with information on Stiles. Stiles has hacked them, he knows. He even put some of the information in there himself. (The CIA didn’t even know his favorite food. Despicable, honestly.)

And, he knows Spider-Man’s got game. The dude is sort of a genius, from what Stiles has _heard_. Maybe the rumors are just rumors, or maybe Spidey is trying to see if Stiles is telling the truth. Most likely the latter, if Stiles is right about this dude.

“What the specifics of your job?” Spidey asks, arms coming up and crossing over his chest. Stiles knows that wasn’t in the original list of questions, but he’s flexible; ‘does yoga every morning’ flexible, ‘can be folded completely in half while getting fucked’ flexible.

“Eradicate those seen as a threat to those who hire me,” aka kill for money, “dispose of people who aim to cause me -- or those I am working with, protecting, or otherwise indebted to -- physical or deadly harm,” aka kill the threats, “protect my fucking nuts in a firefight,” aka save himself, at all costs. Stiles is grinning again, but Spidey still can’t see it, so he crinkles his eyes and tilts his head in an encouraging way.

Spider-Man huffs, long-suffering and unamused. So rude.

“What’s your current assignment?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you want to know everything!” Stiles says. If he could move his hands he would throw them up in exasperation. Body language is so important when he’s talking to masked people through a mask, but he can’t fucking move.

“I could just _dispose_ of you,” Spider-Man says, slinking closer.

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” Stiles says, injecting the right amount of horror into his voice. He knows Spidey wouldn’t, so what’s with the threat? “I have it on good authority that you don’t do _that_.”

“I don’t have to kill you,” Spidey says, jerking his head towards the wide loading dock that leads out to the bay. There’s a grin in his voice, Stiles can tell now. He’s shifting closer, maybe unconsciously. “I could just keep you tied up and kick you into the water. You’d wash up somewhere down river. Far away from here.”

“So you _do_ know who I am,” Stiles says, gasping outrageously. Called that shit.

“Maybe,” Spider-Man says, in a considering voice.

“Let me guess, you want me to leave your city and never return? Is this where you threaten to _not_ kill me? Truly terrifying.”

Spider-Man makes an indignant noise, but Stiles doesn’t give him a chance to answer. He pitches forward, kicking his feet out. Spider-Man is close enough that the bottoms of Stiles’ boots connect solidly with the huge black spider right above his sternum. He grunts and stumbles back, losing his balance, while the momentum flings Stiles far enough back that the wood of the chair cracks when he lands on the concrete.

 _Not_ enough that it cracks completely, of course.

Stiles grunts and arches on his toes, dropping his weight down over and over so that the chair keeps cracking. He’s aware that he looks ridiculous, hopping up and down onto his back so the wood splinters, nearly winding himself. Beggars can’t be choosers.

When the chair back finally gives, he’s pretty sure at least one rib is cracked and Spider-Man is just _watching_ as Stiles rolls and kicks the remains of the chair away. When he kips to his feet, there’s still a glob of webbing attached to the front of his suit.

Motherfucker.

“Motherfucker,” Stiles grumbles, slapping at it with an open palm. He knows he shouldn’t have done that the second he does it. The web clings to his hand, trapping it against his chest. “Mother _fucker_!”

“Smooth,” Spider-Man says. Stiles flips him off with his left hand, since his right is busy being stuck front and center like he’s about to spout off the Pledge of Allegiance.

He ignores the way Spider-Man is staring as he hobbles over to the lump that is Gunman #3 and kicks his body over. Dumb ass dye job. Stiles bends to unstrap the guns from the guy’s thighs, dropping them into his holsters.

“Mine, mine,” he mutters, stepping on a limp hand as he walks away. Metacarpal bones crunch under his boots, and he hears Spider-Man make a noise of protest. He doesn’t spare a glance, just casts around for which body belongs to Gunman #1. His swords are strapped to that fuckers back.

“Mine,” he grunts, boot against Gunman #1’s head to pull his swords free of the, frankly, _low quality_ sword frog that Gunman #1 has. The leather rips as Stiles yanks, Gunman #1’s head creaks a little.

He points a finger at Spider-Man. “How the fuck am I getting this webbing off?”

“It’s engineered to last at least a month,” Spidey says, with a shrug. “I heard peanut butter works.”

“What the _shit_ ,” Stiles says. His hand is _stuck to his chest_. He doesn’t want his suit to smell like peanut butter. “I knew you were a genius.”

Spidey’s arms go a little loose.

“What?”

“A genius? Really good at thinking?” Stiles sighs, heavily. “I was wondering if the webbing was _in you_ or if it was a mechanism. You said you engineered it, so it’s not organic. The fact that you _can_ engineer webbing that’s like steel means you’re a genius.”

“You thought I produced webs? From my wrists?” Spider-Man asks, sounding a lot confused. Stiles makes a noise of affirmation, stepping closer. Spidey doesn’t really have his guard up after the compliment. Amateur.

“Yeah, little sacks of webbing,” Stiles says, with a shrug. His right hand jumps up with his torso. At least he doesn’t have to hold his hand up, it just hangs there, stuck. “I’m actually glad the original trilogy was wrong about that. Cre-e _py_.”

“The original trilogy?” Spider-Man asks, a little dazed sounding. Stiles gets it, he does. It’s all pretty confusing. His eyes track Spider-Man’s body, looking for the source of the webbing. The whole suit is skin-tight. It’s not hard to miss the small disruption in the lines of the spandex over both of Spidey’s wrists, the size of a cuff. That must be where it comes from.

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says. They’re pretty close, but Spider-Man’s watching him, waiting.

There are pros and cons to attacking Spider-Man.

Pros: getting in a fight with Spider-Man, getting to see who’s more skilled in hand-to-hand, getting all up close and personal with that hot bod of his. _Spandex_.

Cons: getting in a fight with Spider-Man. Stiles is pretty sure Spidey’s reflexes are superior to his own, and his own aren’t anything to scoff at. Word through the grapevine is that Spider-Man can _vibrate_ quickly, like some kind of insectoid Wally West. Not that Stiles believes that, really, but does he want to find out?

Yeah, he does.

Not that this is a fair fight, because Stiles is _one handed_ , but he has a feeling Spider-Man isn’t going to let him walk out of the warehouse without a boring lecture on moralistic propriety or something equally mind numbing.

The element of surprise is important, but Spider-Man has all these ultra senses, so Stiles doesn’t bother with any finesse. He charges, dipping low to slam his shoulder into Spider-Man’s sternum. Spider-Man grunts and grabs Stiles by his sword frog, sweeping his feet out from under him so that Stiles just _falls_ to the concrete. His right elbow takes the impact; Stiles can feel the bones in his forearm crack and splinter.

Spider-Man is on him in an instant, slamming his shoulder against the floor so Stiles is on his back, climbing on top of him and punching him in face.

“As sexy as this is-,” Stiles grunts, slamming his head into Spider-Man’s. Their skulls crack together. Stiles rebounds off Spider-Man’s forehead, the back of his skull slamming into the concrete.

Spidey is momentarily unseated, which is the important part. Stiles thrusts his hips up, getting enough momentum to dump Spider-Man on his ass. He slams his knee into Spider-Man’s side, knocking him over again, pushing off his (broken, ow) elbow, swinging it wide, straight into Spider-Man’s head.

It’s a good thing neither of them can really get brain damage, here.

At least, Stiles can’t.

Stiles rolls with the momentum of his elbow, grabbing Spider-Man’s arm with his left hand and yanking, pulling it under him and trapping it between Stiles’ body and the concrete. Before Spider-Man can wiggle away, Stiles slams his wrist repeatedly into the ground. Plastic and metal cracks as he does, cuff break apart. Stiles can feel when it gives.

“Fuck,” Spidey spits, wrapping his arm around Stiles’ torso, shifting their weight so he can fling Stiles away.

Strong motherfucker.

Stiles bounces across the warehouse like a skipping stone.

“Thank god for leather,” he mutters, as he slides to a stop a couple dozen feet away. Spider-Man springs up, body arching as he flies through the air and lands _on Stiles’ shoulders_. His thighs wrap around Stiles’ head as he flings Stiles across the warehouse again. This time, Stiles only bounces twice before he hits the wall.

Spidey leaps to Stiles, throwing another giant glob of chemically engineered web at Stiles. The mess lands on his left arm this time, sticking him to the wall.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, trying to yank himself free. It doesn’t work this time either. Spider-Man lands in front of him lightly, dodging Stiles’ attempts to kick his shins.

“I’m going to leave you here,” he says, wrist flexing twice. The webs land over Stiles’ boots, pinning him to the wall. His right side is still free, tilting forward, wobbly. “You’re going to think about what you did really hard. Maybe I’ll check on you before the month’s out. I have it on good authority that you don’t need to eat to survive. Your body will just _think_ it’s starving.”

“That’s psychological torture!” Stiles protests, incredulously. “You won’t kill people, but you’ll torture them. Inhumane!”

“I make exceptions for assholes,” Spider-Man says. He yanks up his suit sleeve, giving Stiles a clear view of golden brown skin and the cracked cuff. It falls off when Spidey shakes his hand, dropping to the floor. The sleeve goes back down.

Stiles is kind of stuck on the fact that he just saw Spider-Man’s _skin_.

The remaining cuff shoots a long web to the rafters. Spider-Man yanks himself up without looking back.

“I can’t believe you’re just going to leave me hanging!” Stiles shouts at his retreating figure. What a fuckhead, honestly.

 

 

Bad things happen in threes. It’s always in threes. The magical number of fucked-uppery. The theme of bullshit in thirds.

It started with the frontotemporal dementia diagnosis that tore his life apart. Before his brain started deteriorating, Stiles was a _good kid_. He got good grades despite his ADHD, he tried _really hard_. There were sports teams and student council and after school extracurriculars to guarantee he got into a good college.

There was also a genetic disposition for a disorder that made huge chunks of brain matter disappear in a way that was grim and daunting and signified his early death. Sooner than his mom went, definitely before his dad. It fucked his dad up, Stiles knows that. Everything went steep after the diagnosis, and they never dragged themselves out of the hellhole that became their lives.

It started with Stiles becoming an asshole. FTD is characterized by prominent changes in personality. Instead of that sweet and earnest boy he had been when his mom was alive, he began to not give a shit about anything. School, people. His empathy and judgement were the first to go. He acted out, let his temper and his pettiness get the better of him.

Stiles knew he was fucking everything up with his dad, but he couldn’t stop the radical change in who he was as a person. There was no way.

That’s why he ran. That’s why he got all the money he could and packed a bag and got the fuck out of dodge. If he couldn’t stop hurting his dad, then he would just leave. It was better than sitting around, spiralling deeper and deeper into his disease until he was a near-sociopath with no motor functions. Stiles would bet that even with nearly nonexistent language skills, he could still cuss someone out. He didn’t want that someone to be his dad.

There was a dingy diner in Eugene, Oregon. That’s where the second mistake came in. There was a squat man in a crispy suit handing him a business card that was tastefully thick. It even had a watermark. The business card is what sold him. That and his soul-crushing desperation to do _anything_ besides waste away alone, travelling up the West Coast.

Weapon X was a mistake. It wasn’t even the days on days of actual torture that defined Weapon X as a mistake. The whole ‘not long for this world’ attitude that Stiles had perfected ensured that he didn’t really care what they did to him to get his genes to mutate. The defining moment was _after_ his genes mutated. After he was a complete success with his perfect Wolverine healing factor and enhanced _everything_.

The mistake was trusting Weapon X. They made him immortal, then reminded him of his father’s mortality so they could use him as a weapon. Every assignment he failed put his father’s life in further jeopardy. He watched from afar while agents told his father that Stiles was dead, watched as the last bit of hope left his father’s eyes. Going on assignment was almost a relief; he couldn’t relentlessly stalk his dad while he went through the inevitable downward spiral.

There’s a third mistake in there somewhere. Stiles doesn’t know if it was not acting sooner, or something else. If he had fought to get out of Weapon X and saved his dad, maybe his dad wouldn’t have died. That wasn’t Weapon X’s fault, in the end, so maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Maybe the mistake was taking out Weapon X after his dad was buried. He had nothing to lose anymore. They should have brainwashed him Winter Soldier style. It would have stopped him from blowing up every single facility that hosted Weapon X experiments. It would have stopped him from hacking every government database imaginable to trace the origins of Weapon X.

His deadpool was a mile long. Everyone involved in the project, everyone who had given it the green light. At least his healing factor hadn’t restored his frontal lobe fully. The old Stiles wouldn’t have gotten any pleasure from systematically destroying the lives of everyone involved in Weapon X, but the new Stiles… the new Stiles liked it _a lot_.

Maybe the mistake was picking up another vendetta after that one was complete, because Weapon X didn’t kill his dad, it was the Argents.

The Argents were -- _are_ \-- a family of notorious arms dealers that deal with world leaders and supply weapons for wars and have every criminal organization in the world by the balls. His dad busted up a tiny arms exchange in Stiles’ hometown and got shot for his troubles. Murdered.

He’s going to destroy them in the same explosive way he destroyed Weapon X. It’s going to be bloody and beautiful, and he will feel vindicated. He has the names of the heads of the family, the people operating under them. He has a vague idea of what they’re doing next, where some of their pieces are.

That’s where the Calaveras come in. They deal with the Argents on a semi-regular basis. Despite being rival families, they exchange weapons and information and favors when necessary. Stiles wanted to see the exchange first hand, so he let himself get captured. He figured he could kill two birds with one stone; see the operation and meet Spidey.

It went a little sideways, obviously.

What Stiles failed to remember was that the unconscious gunmen would be conscious again. Soon. Maybe Spider-Man had thought of that. Maybe he forgot too. Who honestly knows, but the next time Stiles sees his spandex-clad tight ass, he’s going to punch that asshole in the face.

Getting shot might not kill him, but it hurts like hell when five gunmen unload their clips into his helplessly dangling body. As soon as he looks like swiss cheese and goes limp, they leave. At least they don’t bother to hang around as Stiles falls into the fun, pain-induced headspace where he doesn’t have a concept of time or his surroundings. His body valiantly attempts to heal around the bullet holes, but he doesn’t actually want it to. When his body absorbs bullets, metal detectors are absolute hell until his system pushes them out again.

It’s less trouble to dig them out A- _SAP_.

As soon as possible comes when the webbing goes slack and he falls straight on his face. His chin hits the concrete first, skull bouncing, teeth slicing through his tongue. He spits out a wad of blood as it heals, struggling to his feet.

The webbing falls from the wall, getting less and less dense as it drips onto the floor. It’s shrinking. He waddles over to it, grabbing a handful. It’s _dissolving_.

“A month my _ass_ ,” he says, throwing the wad down. It’s the consistency of marshmallow fluff now. “Spider-Man is a fuck head. What does anyone see in him? He’s one of the most popular superheroes. Why? He’s a tool!”

Stiles digs through the pockets of his belt, searching for his phone. Fortunately, unscathed by the bullets, and perfect for introducing a new character.

“What did you do now?” Lydia asks, as she picks up. She sounds bright-eyed and bushy tailed for the middle of the night. There’s probably a load of caffeine in her system. Stiles walks out of the warehouse, debating whether or not to call an Uber.

“The Argents didn’t meet with the Calaveras for the pick up,” Stiles says, rubbing his hand over his head. The leather squeaks as it slides together. “I don’t know if they ever planned on coming.”

“They did,” Lydia says, shortly. In the background, he can hear keyboard keys clattering. “But someone spotted Spider-Man at the docks, and they called it off. The Calaveras men who were there should have gotten the message.”

“They were preoccupied,” Stiles says. “Being unconscious and stuff.”

“No kills?” Lydia asks, her voice jumping in surprise. Under the mask, Stiles is scowling.

“Not on purpose,” Stiles says, petulantly. He doesn’t _not_ kill on purpose, he doesn’t think he ever will. That kind of character development might not ever happen for him. “It was Spider-Man.”

“Did you get your ass kicked?” Lydia asks, faux pity in her voice.

“There was _webbing_ ,” Stiles says. It’s dissolved off the front of his suit, now, but it was there and it was sticky.

“I’m heading to you in the morning,” Lydia says, abruptly. Stiles makes a strangled noise of protest. “There have been some developments. I’ll fill you in later.”

Stiles growls and hangs up on her. Developments-shemelopments. He needs a good set of sterilized sutures and a huge bottle of vodka. To pour on his wounds. Because he can’t fucking get drunk.

He hates this city.

 

 

The city, Beacon City, is one stop on his journey to actualizing his revenge. It’s beautiful, in that busy, dirty, grimey way that cities always have. A dull grey landscape with bursts of color in the form of street art and litter. The cloying, heavy scent of air that settles in the lungs. Every city is the same, all over the world. Towering buildings, bright lights, people walking with neutral expressions. Until _him_.

The bright goddamn sun spot in all of it, waiting for Stiles outside of the Happy Bean, fiddling with his scarf.

Scott McCall.

Scott McCall was an accident. A meet-cute that, unlike his one with Spider-Man, was not arranged in the slightest. It was the coffee shop meet-cute, the cliche clumsy barista spills coffee on the unsuspecting mercenary. Love at first degree burn. Scott was very concerned about the whole thing. It was endearing as hell.

After a bit of light stalking, Stiles discovered that Scott works at the Happy Bean while interning for Hale Corp in the department of genetic sciences. A smarty pants. He even wears glasses. Thick black frames that he pushes up his nose and messes with when he’s nervous. They fog up when Stiles kisses him. It’s charming.

Stiles doesn’t do attachment. Not really. He can’t risk it in his line of work. It’s _stupid_ in his line of work. Pretty much every masked crusader has the same dilemma: get attached and risk their life, or live a lonely existence. It’s the subplot for every superhero movie, a total cliche that Stiles had been _avoiding_. With the dead family and purposefully reclusive behavior, Stiles was perfectly fine with option number two. Until Scott.

Not that he thinks this dating thing is a _forever_ deal. It can’t be. Stiles is a forever deal, because Stiles is immortal. Most people aren’t. Scott isn’t. But he’s enjoying it while he can, memorizing the way Scott smiles at him with the dopiest, most sincere grin Stiles has ever seen.

“Hey, Stiles is here, I’ll catch you later,” Scott says, into the phone. He’s always saying that: ‘catch you later’, except it sounds like all one word. ‘Catchulater’, quick and cute. “Okay… Okay. Yeah… Love you too, bye.”

“Sorry, that was MJ,” Scott says, when he hangs up. Stiles’ shoulders jump in dismissal. The mysterious MJ. One of Scott’s closest friends who Stiles has yet to meet. Her presence is pretty limited to tail ends of phone calls and references in conversation. Not that Stiles cares _too_ much, but he’s a paranoid bastard who has to know everything about everything so he’s curious as to _why_.

“All good,” Stiles says, with a reassuring smile. He tugs Scott out of the way of the sidewalk, twirling him so they’re facing each other and giving him a hard kiss. Stiles can feel the moment Scott melts against him, when Stiles licks into his mouth and cups the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.

Getting to kiss Scott is the best part.

Honestly, all of Scott is the best part. If there’s a Gorgeous Date Lottery, Stiles has definitely won. Scott’s hot like burning with a mouth that was _made_ to sin and eyes that melt Stiles’ icy merc heart. They’re all warm and brown. Stiles doesn’t think _anyone_ has looked at him the way Scott looks at him (Stiles probably wouldn’t let them if they did). It’s terrifying and intoxicating all at once.

Bonus! Those smarts Stiles mentioned. He can keep up with Stiles’ brain. Sometimes his brain goes places that Stiles’ brain doesn’t. They compliment each other like watermelon and salt, or fries and barbecue sauce. Unexpectedly delicious.

After a shift, Scott always tastes like shots of espresso and smells like roasted coffee beans. Stiles wants to eat him up, but he resists his cannibalistic urges. They have a movie to catch.

“Did you get the tickets?” Scott asks, lacing their fingers together as they walk to the train station. Stiles wishes that they could walk-cuddle, all wrapped around each other. That they could kiss and kiss and never have to break apart to see where they were going.

This is definitely something that he never saw himself doing. The whole dating thing, falling slowly (or quickly, let’s be real) for someone, especially someone as innocent and sweet as Scott. He always thought that when he met someone, they would be the same kind of hard-edged asshole as he was.

“We just have to pick them up at the theater,” Stiles says. He sounds chipper. He doesn’t know when he started being the kind of person who _sounds chipper_. It probably started the same time his lowkey obsession with Scott did.

“Totally on top of it,” Scott says, ducking his head and smiling. Stiles loves it.

“Totally,” he agrees. When Scott smiles at him like that, Stiles forgets who he is. The only thing he can think about is himself in the context of _Scott_. He’s not the person whose whole life was deconstructed in order to make him an overpowered _tool_ against his will. He’s not a top billed merc, not a sought after “criminal”. He’s just Scott’s… person.

It’s fucking terrifying. In an awesome way. Like, jumping out of an airplane without a parachute or murdering someone who’s on the Top Ten Most Wanted List. Heart pounding, balls tingling, _awesomely terrifying_.

It probably shouldn’t be this intense, but Stiles doesn’t do anything by halves. Especially not dating and feelings and shit. Especially not when it comes to Scott McCall. There’s something about Scott that Stiles can’t ignore, really doesn’t want to.

It takes all of his concentration to even focus on the movie. Even then, he barely registers what’s happening. The arm of the seat is up, Scott burrowing into his side. All Stiles can really think about is the way that they’re breathing in sync. Maybe if he could hear their hearts, they would be chugging along at the same pace.

Stiles likes the idea of being so tuned in with someone that his pulse has adapted to theirs. He likes the morbidity of imagining their bodies merging, becoming one; Scott sinking into him so deeply there’s no end or beginning to either of them; one mass of vibrating atoms.

Stiles can’t help himself when he squeezes Scott’s thigh. There’s a warm body next to him, and Stiles is incredibly fond of touching that body. It’s hard to resist. So, he doesn’t. It’s not his fault that Scott can’t ignore him, especially when he starts dragging his hand towards the crease of Scott’s hip.

The denim of his pants is rough under Stiles’ hand, muting the sensations; nothing like the slide of skin-on-skin, but Scott feels _hotter_ , if it’s possible. Stiles doesn’t miss the way his hips shift. When he looks at Scott’s face, his eyebrows are furrowed, teeth digging into his bottom lip. The movie reflects brightly in Scott’s glasses, so Stiles can’t see his eyes, but it doesn’t really matter. If Scott disapproved, he would definitely pull away when Stiles palmed his cock.

“Stiles,” he whispers, fiercely. Stiles grins and gives him a peck on the cheek. It’s not a new movie. There are only a few other people in the theater besides them; a few pairs and small groups. The explosions on screen are distracting enough to cover any noises that Scott might accidentally make. Stiles picked the back row for a reason.

“Just watch the movie,” Stiles says, pressing more kisses along Scott’s cheek before biting at his earlobe. Scott’s breath hitches as Stiles unbuttons his jeans, knuckles pressing against Scott’s hard-on.

The zipper comes down and Scott’s dick comes out. Stiles draws back to lick his hand sloppily before wrapping his fingers around Scott’s cock to jerk him off. The gasp that comes out of Scott’s mouth is _lovely_ , even if Stiles has to pick it out of the sounds of a grenade going off on screen. Stiles isn’t about to take his time -- hello, semi-public _sex_. Luckily, he’s a pro at jerking it, especially from this angle.

He tightens his fist, tugs hard and fast. He can see Scott’s chest heaving, teeth indenting his lip still. Stiles will weep tears of joy if he ends up drawing blood. Regularly, Scott is noisy as hell. So noisy that the neighbors _knocked on the door_ to ask them to keep it down the first time Stiles went home with Scott.

Now, he can’t be loud, he knows they’ll get in trouble. Stiles is trying really hard not to see that as a challenge, but he’s terrible at restraining himself. There’s no stopping him from sucking on Scott’s neck, biting hickies into his skin. Stiles can hear every time Scott breathes out a low whine. Luckily, no one else can.

He knows Scott is close when he starts moving his hips, fucking up into the tight circle of Stiles’ fist. He shoves his shirt up his stomach with one hand and presses his other fist into his mouth, literally biting down on his whine when he comes all over his stomach.

Stiles loosens his fist, letting Scott’s dick pulse and spit while Scott regulates his breathing. Planning is _so important_. He’s so glad he grabbed that pile of napkins at the concession stand. He shoves a few at Scott, who wipes his stomach down quickly and shoves himself back in his pants.

Stiles is so hard it feels like his dick is going to fall off, but the action scenes have tapered off into conflict resolution and emotional reconciliation. There’s no way to get an orgasm without getting caught. Not that he minds much, he’s still incredibly smug about the way Scott’s breathing hard, the way his mouth is all swollen. There are indents on the back of his hand where he bit down.

Stiles tugs him into a dirty kiss that Scott returns with enthusiasm. If they spend the rest of the movie necking like teenagers, no one seems to notice.

“I actually wanted to see that movie,” Scott grumbles, when they stumble out of the theater. Despite Stiles’ best efforts, he didn’t leave any hickeys on Scott’s skin.

“Just one bruise, that’s all I ask for,” Stiles says, not dignifying that with a response. “One mark, just one. Even a little one. I used _so much teeth_. I don’t understand your freaky inability to bruise.”

“I bruise,” Scott snorts, hand going to his neck, poking at the skin there. The blemish free skin. Fucker. “It just takes a lot to make me bruise.”

“So much teeth, McCall, so much teeth,” Stiles reminds him, reluctantly letting Scott lace their fingers together. There’s still a flush high on Scott’s cheeks. He doesn’t understand how someone who gets so rosy just doesn’t bruise. Logic. There is none.

“I guess you’ll have to try harder?” Scott suggests, pushing his glasses up his nose with his free hand, giving Stiles the _look_. The look that means they’re going to fuck each other’s brains out.

“I’m going to ride you so hard you can’t see straight,” Stiles promises, letting Scott tug him to the bus stop.

When they get to Scott’s, Stiles makes good on that promise. Well.

Scott pins him to the door with surprising strength and ravishes his mouth before blowing him hard and rough right there, fingers scrambling against the wood of the door. Scott’s mouth is beautiful and talented and Stiles can’t keep himself from coming down Scott’s throat. It’s a weakness.

Not that Scott seems to mind, he’s hard again. He lets Stiles pick him up and carry him into the bedroom, hooking his legs around Stiles’ waist. Stiles’ healing factor means his refractory time is nonexistent, but he takes his time with Scott just because he can. They kiss and touch each other as they shed the last of their clothes, until they’re naked and rolling around on Scott’s bed.

They frot together with lazy strokes until Stiles is hard and leaking. When they finally get the lube out, Scott fingers him open, watching Stiles like he’s never seen anything so magnificent in his entire life. That look, that _look_ makes Stiles all giddy as he pushes Scott down and climbs on his lap.

Stiles was planning on fucking Scott to exhaustion, riding him ruthlessly, playfully, teasing him, but once he gets there, all his feelings punch him right in the chest. When he sinks down on Scott’s cock, he rolls his hips slowly. It’s almost too much, too sensual, with Scott under him like this. The look on his face is so vulnerable, so happy. It makes Stiles want to scream. In an orgasmic way, but also in a way that lets off some of the tension these _emotions_ put in his body.

So, they… make love. Or whatever kids call it these days. Stiles grinds on Scott’s lap slowly, laces their fingers together. He kisses Scott, praises him gently. He lets Scott take over at some point. They flip and Scott fucks him with long, patient strokes, teasing noises out of them both.

When they finally both come again, it’s like the floodgates open up, satisfaction in every bone of Stiles’ body. Scott snuggles into Stiles’ side, warm and breathing fast. He makes Stiles want to talk like a Shakespearian asshole. Stiles wants to _woo_ Scott with copious amounts of thinly veiled dick jokes. There would be confessions of his feelings in there as well, but mostly dick jokes.

He feels like a middle schooler with a crush. He wants to ask Scott to go steady with him, slip a note under his pillow ‘do you like me, yes or no?’. He’s never needed to know this badly, but he wants to hear Scott verbally reciprocate his feelings. It feels like a necessity for _living_.

(He knows it’s not, but the feeling is so urgent. Like he has to tinkle. But in his heart.)

There’s a lot that they don’t know about each other, a lot that Scott _shouldn’t ever_ know about Stiles. But it doesn’t matter when they’re lying there, sticky with their own come and sweat. It’s them against the world. Two hearts in a sea of possibilities.

Who knew Stiles was secretly a romantic? He sure didn’t. If someone tried to pay him to kill Scott he would kill _them_ , steal their money, and elope with Scott. That’s how romantic he feels.

Who fucking knew.

 

 

Lydia arrives with a sweep of condescension and too much luggage. She makes him carry it to the taxi and out of the taxi, takes one look at his apartment and arranges for a hotel. Honestly, she should have expected it not to live up to her expectations, but the nose turn she gives it is actually hurtful.

“It’s not that bad!” Stiles says, as they taxi to her hotel. It’s a swanky dig in downtown, not even close enough for him to walk to. “Isn’t my handler supposed to stick close to me?”

“I’m not your _handler_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m here independently of you to follow leads on the Hale Corp investigation.”

“Are those the ‘developments’?” Stiles asks, curiously. Hale Corp has been pretty quiet since the whole Peter Hale debacle. The genetics lab has been under strict regulation by government agencies. Hence the ‘ongoing investigation’; gotta make sure they’re not making mutants in those labs. Insert sad laughter.

“Yes, the ‘developments’,” Lydia says, eyes flicking to the taxi driver. He has his hands at two and ten, eyes straight ahead. They might as well not even be there. Lydia pats his thigh, “tell me about this McCall.”

“What about him?” Stiles asks, unable to help the way the corner of his mouth tugs up. That dumb, warm feeling in his chest is back.

“How long has it been?” she asks, digging through the bag on her lap. There are thick file folders in there that he wants to get his hands on. Maybe she’ll let him look when they get to her hotel. She gives him an expectant look as she opens her lip gloss.

“3 weeks,” Stiles says. 19 days, 8 hours, and 28 minutes. Not that he’s counting. Lydia makes a humming noise.

“Ready to elope yet?” she asks, smirking.

“What the shit? Why would that even be a thought that popped into my mind?”

He would totally steal Scott away to live on a secluded beach. After his revenge is complete, of course.

“Because you like to jump into the deep end with both feet,” she replies, patting his shoulder daintily. He resists the urge to hiss at her like an offended cat. Instead, he pouts.

“How _else_ do you jump into the deep end?”

“Head first,” she says, tapping obnoxiously on his forehead. Stiles swats at her hand.

“First off, there’s concrete at the bottom of pools, and I’m not the best diver,” he says. “ _Secondly_ , I do use my head, just not the one above my shoulders.”

“I knew you were going to go there.”

“My gross mind is _so_ predictable, you brought that on yourself.”

“Shut the fuck up, Stilinski,” she says, whacking him. He grins at her wickedly. She doesn’t need to know the feeling that he gets when he thinks about Scott. It makes Scott a liability. The only reason she knows Scott even exists is because she _is_ his handler.

Everything he does, she needs to know about. Luckily, they have a relationship that closely resembles a friendship, or he probably would have ditched her months ago.

The best thing about his revenge plot is that it’s government endorsed. S.H.I.E.L.D tracked him down after he burnt out Weapon X. Apparently his vendetta was considered a counter-terrorist action. Weapon X was genetically modifying people to use them as weapons against various high profile people. Which is terrorism, who knew. Hunting down the Argents is a similar idea. As long as he’s killing the bad guys, he gets to keep on killing.

The paycheck isn’t as fat as a normal job; he can’t find any criminal organization that will actually pay him to take out the Argents. They’ve got everyone under their thumb, but there isn’t enough resentment in the lower ranks to demand a coup. They’re powerful, but Stiles is going to fucking topple them.

“Have you heard from Allison?” Lydia asks, after a pause, eyes out the window. Stiles deflates. “Her dad wants to talk to her.”

“Why would _she_ want to talk to him?” he asks, eyeing the driver, then the side of Lydia’s head. Allison Argent defected from the Argent family a few years ago, while Stiles was going through his Weapon X recalibration. The government hid her somewhere.

That somewhere is Beacon City, if Stiles’ sources are correct. He needs to find her. For reasons.

Mostly to use her as bait, but he'll settle for getting information from her.

“He moved out of his parents house,” she shrugs. “He’s living on my side of town now. Ready to reconcile.”

“What about dear Aunt Kate?” Stiles asks. It’s one thing if Chris Argent is working for the government, but Kate is a different story. They’re similar in that ‘kill or be killed’ kind of way, but he would gladly take her face off if he had the chance.

“Still mooching off her parents,” Lydia says, snorting. “So much wasted potential.”

“Please don’t talk about potential and Katie A. in the same sentence, Lydia,” Stiles says, scowling at her. The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “The only thing she has the potential for is --”

“A terrible Thanksgiving dinner,” Lydia says, looking at him sharply. He was going to say ‘a bullet in her skull’ or ‘life in max. security’. He forgot they had company.

“And a shitty Christmas, too,” Stiles agrees. That’s not code for anything, but he can’t imagine the holidays are happy fun time with a crime family. It’s probably full of assassination attempts and self-justification as to why sleeping with a first cousin is a good idea.

The hum Lydia gives him in response is amused. They slip into a comfortable silence. He watches the buildings scroll by outside her window, sunlight catching in the ruby cobweb of her hair. When they meet up, it’s usually in a basement room of some government facility, computer screens reflecting in Lydia’s glasses, hair throw up into a bun with pencils stuck all over. He didn’t realize her eyes were as green as they are.

When they get through traffic to Lydia’s unreasonably priced hotel, Stiles carries her bag upstairs simply so he can drop them inside the door and take a running jump at her bed. His whole body sinks in bonelessly. The noise he makes is definitely not safe for work.

Her shoe hits his head.

“Get off my clean sheets,” she commands, dropping her bag onto the table and pulling out the files before sashaying over to him and smacking him with them to make him roll over. He sits up, making room for her, ignoring the implication that he’s dirty.

“Alright, spill,” he says, making grabby hands at the folders. There’s something so satisfying in getting the low down on investigations that he’s not linked to. Hacking the computer systems is always an option. While that is _fun_ , getting the gossip without the work is way more satisfying.

Lydia raises an eyebrow at him and unlocks her phone, swiping through to her apps. The program that pops up is a black interface with a thumb pad. When she presses it, a high pitch screeching fills up Stiles’ head with white noise.

“Ah, ah, what the fucking fuck is that?” he asks, slamming his hands over his ears. He can barely hear his own voice over the ringing. He’s surprised they’re not _bleeding_. Lydia switches it off after a couple of seconds and drops her phone.

“Bug sweep,” she says, shrugging.

“You could have just _swept the room_ like a normal person? With your eyes and hands and maybe one of those rod things that senses the electronic pulses, or what the fuck ever?”

“The technology is evolving,” Lydia says. “Not all bugs are that detectable anymore.”

“Well, fuck me,” Stiles mutters. He’ll have to get that app off of her, make sure his apartment isn’t bugged. He’s pretty sure that no one has caught onto him yet, but he can never be too careful. “Okay, whatever, tell me about the files.”

Lydia drags one closer, tapping her pale pink nails on the cover.

“I got the brilliant idea to look into other departments at Hale Corp. As if going over all the active and inactive research projects in the genetic sciences department isn’t _enough_ work, right?”

“Right,” Stiles agrees. “But you’re Lydia Martin.”

“But I’m Lydia Martin,” Lydia echoes. “Each department is broken down into sections, based on what they’re attempting to develop.”

“Yes, that’s what the R&D stands for: research and development.”

“Shut up. Just listen. There’s a biomechanical department that’s buried pretty deep. Vague references and number sequences for case names, a department of a department of a department.”

“Like a naughty matryoshka doll,” Stiles says, rubbing his hands together. The more vague a description, the more badness happens. Especially with R&D. Especially with big corporation R&D. Bastards, the lot of them.

“Yeah, ‘naughty’. I did some snooping and found a series of logs dating back to a year and a half ago.”

“Right after the whole Peter Hale business,” Stiles says, nodding excitedly. That was linked to Spider-Man. The plot thickens. Lydia gives him an exasperated look. He zips up his mouth and throws away the key.

“The biomech department partnered with genetic sciences for a series of experiments. The logs don’t show up in the genetics departments databases, which is why we missed it.”

“ _Super_ naughty,” Stiles whispers. Lydia glares at him harder. “So, what _did_ they do?”

Stiles peers over her shoulder, craning to see the information on the page. It’s a jumble of jargon that he doesn’t feel like trying to muddle through. Lots of brain diagrams that are giving him war flashbacks to his MRI days.

“They were working on a mechanism that would bind to the brainstem,” Lydia says. “The mechanism would either be preprogrammed or accessed remotely.”

“Wait, like mind control, you’re talking about mind control?” Stiles demands, nearly snatching the files out of her hand. Lydia yanks them away in time, glaring at him.

“Organic mind control,” she replies, patiently. “They wanted the mechanism to absorb into the body, to permanently take away any hope for independent thought or action.”

“How is that possible?” he asks. That doesn’t even makes sense. Biomechanics are ridiculous.

“Science,” she says, with a shrug. “The details are superfluous. What you do need to know is that they succeeded. The successful experiment was a lizard. The program shut down shortly afterwards.”

“What? Why would they succeed and then pull the plug?” Stiles demands. He needs to know what the hell it means. Was the lizard’s brain too simple, did it not have the complexity to reject the mechanism? Was it something else? Was it --

“I think it’s a cover,” Lydia says, tugging papers out of the bottom folder. A color photograph of Spider-Man is on top, but Lydia flips past it until she gets to a grainy photo of… something. Not Hellboy, that’s for sure, but _something_ with a long tail and a hulky body.

“Please don’t tell me that’s a giant lizard monster,” Stiles says, cringing.

“Okay, I won’t tell you that, then,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him. “This thing is a ghost. We’re assuming it has enhanced strength, reflexes, healthing ability, agility.”

“All the genetically modified good stuff,” Stiles says.

“All the genetically modified good stuff,” Lydia echoes. “We need more information on it. Was it lab grown? Crossbred --”

“Is it a mutated human?” Stiles says, eyes on the page. If the feeling in his gut is right, that’s exactly what it is. “Is it a gene splice experiment à la Peter Hale?” That’s the most likely. Mutations are rarely full body like that. Even Beast didn’t start as an anthropomorphized… beast.

“Exactly,” Lydia says. She closes the file, dragging the pad of her forefinger down the file to press the crease down. The street sounds filter through the open window, his jeans slide against the sheet as his leg fidgets. Lydia’s barely breathing. “I need a favor.”

Stiles’ heart squeezes hard in his chest. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“No.”

“Stiles, please,” Lydia says, eyes wide, on him.

“No, absolutely not,” he says, rolling away from her and jumping up, stepping away from the bed. He shakes out his shoulders, trying to focus past the low buzz of irritation at the base of his skull. “Please, don’t ask.”

Whatever she asks, he has to do. That’s one of the conditions of his contract with S.H.I.E.L.D. He can do what he pleases with whatever bad guys he pleases, as long as he acquiesces to everything his handler wants or needs. It counts as a Task. A Mission.

His handler being Lydia.

Who is investigating Hale Corp’ department of genetic sciences. Where his (sorta, kinda) boyfriend works.

She’s looking at him with those big, wet hazel eyes. Stiles can feel anger curling up in his chest, but not the useful anger. Not the anger that gives him the energy to get shit done. It’s the anger that makes him feel sick, useless. The anger that closely resembles despair. Not that he’d admit that.

“Stiles --”

“ _Please_ , don’t ask, Lydia. I don’t want this plot twist. I don’t want to do this.”

She’s just _staring at him_ , face open and vulnerable. _His_ face must be doing something truly awful if _she_ looks upset for him. It’s not like he can tell, there’s just that tight, hot feeling all over his body, like his skin is pulled taut. They both know what’s going to happen, but he’s hoping, he’s _really_ hoping he’s wrong.

The pressure in the air changes when she makes a decision. Her face goes blank, and Stiles’ veins go cold.

“Stiles,” she says, in her ‘direct order’ voice. She stands, straightening out her skirt with a tug. “I need you to gather information on the Hale Corp department of genetic sciences, using any means possible. Including the connection you’ve already cultivated with Scott McCall. Who, according to the information you’ve given us, is an intern there.”

“Is this why you came here?” Stiles asks, angrily. He can’t help the way his voice scrapes out of his throat. She doesn’t even flinch as he strides closer. “Was this the actual ‘development’? You figured out that I was a way in, and you’re seizing the opportunity?”

“We might have a way to find out information on this thing before it turns into another situation like Peter Hale. We need to take advantage of that.”

Her voice is so steady and calm. Stiles is vibrating out his skin with anger.

“But it hasn’t turned into a Situation,” Stiles snaps. “It’s been a year and half. Can you link any crimes to this thing? What if it’s cognizant and wants to be left alone? What if you’re off base? You’re linking old ass, buried research with a shadowy figure in a photograph! Mutants are _everywhere_ , Lydia.”

“I didn’t give you all the information,” Lydia says, sharply. “Don’t act like I’m in imbecile that can’t do her job properly. I have checked and double checked, and I’m _right_. McCall could be our way in.”

“Or he could know nothing!” Stiles shouts. His temper is going… going… “He was green then, he probably had no idea what was going on.”

“He worked directly under Peter Hale!” Lydia nearly shouts, voice escalating with his. Only, her voice is superhuman. The air around them starts to vibrate as she gets angrier. It doesn’t look like she’s going to pull it back. “Don’t be willfully ignorant here. Do you really think I would ask you for this if I didn’t think it could get us somewhere?”

“I think you’re being a selfish bitch,” Stiles snarls, hands curling into fists so tightly his nails dig into his palms. His whole body is numb, he can’t think straight.

“And you attempting to dissuade me from giving you this order isn’t selfish?” she snaps, face going red. The air is trembling, her voice still at the top of her throat. He would _love_ for her to scream and blow the windows. The sound of glass shattering would be so fucking satisfying right now. “This is more important than getting your dick wet, Stilinski.”

Stiles feels like he’s going to throw up. He can’t even defend himself right now, because he can’t show his cards that quickly. Not about Scott. It’s _not_ about the sex, but she can’t know. If she’s going to use Scott against him _now_ , he can’t imagine what would happen if she knew… If _S.H.I.E.L.D_ knew.

He’s not in love, but he could be. That’s the worst part.

“Fine,” he grits out. “I’ll do what I fucking can.”

Lydia doesn’t try to stop him as he leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

Not even taking his aggression out on paper targets can get out his… aggression. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. While he’s used to seething with rage, he’s never been this aimless about it.

It’s not like he can take it out on Lydia. It might be stupid as fuck, but he knows why she’s asking him to investigate Scott. The thought has crossed his mind, even. But what goes on at Hale Corp is absolutely none of his concern. His focus is the Argents. Why would he let himself get sidetracked from that?

Except that Lydia is making it his concern, and he has to listen to her if he wants to keep his government endorsement, and it’s _bullshit_. She knows it is, too. That’s why she didn’t try to make her request seem reasonable.

He squeezes his ass into the leather early that night, hoping to find someone to kick around. Preferably someone who can take it. The worst thing about having to wait for your target to fall into your lap is not having anything to do.

Stiles isn’t a vigilante, he doesn’t stop muggings or robberies or help the police with car chases. That’s Spider-Man’s territory, not his. He’s _not_ a superhero, and he has no desire to be one. All he has to do is hang out on rooftops and hope there’s something that looks evil to punch in the face.

A quick check of the docks tells him no one lingered after the incident with the Calaveras. He expected as much, but it would have been nice to have a lead. An investigation to follow up. Something to fucking _do_.

Apparently, Beacon City is boring as hell. So, like a complete cliche, he takes to the rooftops. Maybe he’ll run into Spider-Dick.

 _Speaking of_.

His ingenious honestly knows no limits. There’s a spotlight on top of the Toyota dealership in downtown, and some soft metal that’s mighty malleable. Well, he’s mighty, so it’s malleable. In no time, he has a makeshift Spidey Signal. Metal bent and crushed into the shape of a spider that he lies delicately on top of the spotlight.

While he waits, he checks his Instagram feed, posts a picture next to the signal with a thumbs up. He can't wait to read the comments.

It doesn’t take long for the tell-tale whizzing of web to reach his ears. Spider-Man drops onto the roof with barely any noise, rocking on the balls of his feet. He tilts his head at Stiles curiously. Like a puppy.

“What’s this?” he asks, obviously exasperated.

“It’s a signal I made so that you would come see me,” Stiles says, patting the spotlight. He pulls the metal off and flips it in the air, catching it easily. The edges are rough, sharp. It’s not his best work. “I didn’t get your number, last time.”

“Look, I’m a little busy,” Spider-Man says, jerking his head backwards. The lights from the roof make it easy to see that there are tears in his suit, arms and legs sliced open. Claws marks, maybe. There’s blood staining the fabric, dark on the bright red and blue. It’s the wrong shade to hide blood.

“Please tell me that you’re fighting a giant lizard monster right now,” Stiles says, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. Spider-Man looks at him sharply. “What? I have sources!”

“What happens if I say that I’m fighting a giant lizard monster right now?” Spider-Man asks.

Stiles doesn’t get to answer. A monstrous roar shakes the air around them, low and throaty, making the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stand up. Spider-Man sprints towards him. Their hands brush as he yanks the metal spider out of Stiles’ hand and throws it like a frisbee. It flies through the air with enough force that Stiles hears it slice through the air before it lands in the side of the _giant lizard creature_.

“Called it!” Stiles yells, drawing his swords immediately, heart pounding. The thing is more terrifying than the grainy, low qual pictures give it credit for. It’s double the size of a normal person, skin scaly and rough. In the darkness, it looks inky black, yellow eyes staring blankly at them. Stiles can see the claws from here, thick and deadly. There’s a tail swishing behind it, almost double the length of its body. The lizard clings to the side of the opposing building with no effort.

Spider-Man doesn’t answer, but Stiles doesn’t need him to. He runs towards the ledge of the roof. There’s no reason not to help out, at this point. He did need something to punch -- it’s like kismet or something. He’ll make sure to thank the author for this later.

Stiles’ boots hit the ledge, and he launches himself off the roof. His heart stops as he flies through the air, arms flailing. The lizard is very vertical. He can’t land on it. Obviously the next best option is to stab his swords into the meat of it’s back to stop his momentum.

Stiles flops like a ragdoll, weight dropping as his swords anchor. Something thick and wet lands on him, yanking him back. His shoulders pop as he tries to cling to his swords, but he’s being tugged off the lizard. If he doesn’t let go, his shoulders are going to dislocate.

He lets go.

It’s webbing -- of course it’s webbing -- tugging him backwards. He flails wildly, bouncing when he hits the roof of the building he started on, landing at Spider-Man’s feet.

“Don’t kill him,” Spider-Man orders, sharply. Stiles is really close to shooting his face off.

“Don’t kill -- ! It’s a giant lizard monster!” Stiles yells, jumping up. Spider-Man tugs the webbing, snapping it off. There’s probably still a giant glob on the back of Stiles’ suit, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“There’s a real person in there!” Spider-Man says, leaping into the air as the lizard launches itself from the side of the opposing building onto their roof. Its weight drops, cracking the stone underneath its huge front claws.

Wet globs of webbing land over its feet, but it dodges quickly, scuttling close. Stiles springs to his feet, letting the momentum carry him back into a flip. He would say fuck the giant lizard thing, but it’s got his swords sheathed in its back.

Gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘sword frog’.

“I don’t give a shit,” Stiles says, running towards it. Spider-Man is doing all sorts of flips and tricks around it, using its body as a springboard. Stiles would be impressed if it looked like his punches were actually doing anything. It doesn’t. He’s unimpressed. “I have killed people for less. Being a giant homicidal lizard monster justifies death!”

“You’re not murdering him,” Spider-Man says, turning his attentions to Stiles. The tone in his voice is irritatingly familiar. Like when his dad used to tell him he couldn’t stay out after 10pm, or when Scott tells him he can’t have the last piece of pizza.

What.

“Watch the tail!” Spidey says, dodging said appendage gracefully. It’s harder to hear a distinct voice through a mask. Usually it’s muffled, but. It’s familiar. Unsettlingly familiar.

“ _Why_? And _why_ can’t I kill him?” Stiles shouts, running towards the both of them, ignoring that nagging thought in his mind. He needs to focus on not losing to this thing. No fucking way is Geico’s mascot winning this fight.

“There’s toxin, it’ll paralyze you,” Spider-Man shouts, still shooting webs. Still doing absolutely nothing to the lizard. He’s only wearing himself out. Then, “If he’s dead, he doesn’t have a chance of being human again!”

Oh, _toxin_. Of course there’s _toxin_. As if engineering a monster gecko wasn’t enough, give it razor sharp teeth, deadly claws, and _paralytic venom_. Of course Spider-Man wants it _alive_. What is _wrong_ with this city?

The lizard is distracted with Spider-Man, so Stiles leaps over its back, spinning and grabbing his swords. His momentum tugs them free, slicing through a chuck of the thing’s back before coming loose. Blood sprays. The lizard roars and arches up on his hind legs, turning its beady gaze to Stiles.

“Bring it on, snake face,” Stiles says, as he lands, whipping around to face it. His swords go in the sheath, his guns come out. He’s done with this. “Maximum effort!”

The thing comes at him, hissing with grim determination. It dodges bullets as soon as he starts firing, but some land. He starts running once it gets close enough to pounce on him, twisting to fire.

Leg, leg, shoulder, arm. Skimmed the head. Fuck.

He can hear Spider-Man running behind him, the soft fall of his lightweight boots. Stiles is surprised he hasn’t gotten webbed yet, but he’s not questioning it. Instead, he turns around, plants his feet, and aims directly at the middle of the lizard’s forehead.

Spider-Man tackles the shit out of him. The trigger compresses, but Stiles is flying sideways. Instead of blowing the monster’s brains out, it shoots through an air conditioning unit behind the thing.

They bounce and roll. Spider-Man’s arms are wrapped around Stiles’ torso tightly, so tightly he can feel a rib or two crack under the force of it. They skid to a stop, stacked together unpleasantly.

“I’m gunna fucking murder you,” Stiles says, swinging his head back so it connects with Spider-Man’s. There’s a grunt. The grip around him loosens enough that he can wiggle free, throwing an elbow into the part of Spider-Man that’s the closest.

When Stiles kips up, they’re alone on the roof.

“Fuck!” Stiles shouts, throwing his guns down. One shoots off as it bounces, bullet embedding into the brick ledge of the building. Stiles draws his swords and whirls, pointing them at Spider-Man. Spider-Man is already standing, watching him.

This is the moment where everything changes.

If Lydia’s plot twist was Bad, this is Terrible.

Everything collapses together in Stiles’ mind like an accordion. The way Spider-Man’s holding himself is too familiar for comfort. It’s not the usual perfect posture Spider-Man adapts to make himself take up more space. This is loose, completely unguarded; shoulders sloughed forward, resigned. When Spider-Man usually looks at Stiles, his head is cocked, but it’s level now.

His jaw is crooked.

The realization plows into Stiles so hard, he wants to throw up.

The voice he can wave off. People have similar voices all the time, that’s nothing to write the Daily Bugle about. Even the build of his body is fairly average. _Even_ the crooked jaw. Less common, but not a feature that _never_ makes an appearance. But all three of them in combination is damning.

It seems too impossible. Out of all the people in Beacon City, Scott McCall might be -- probably _is_ \-- Spider-Man. Those kinds of coincidences don’t exist, not in Stiles’ life. There’s no way that Spider-Man _happened_ to spill his drink on Stiles and _happened_ to start dating Stiles.

The worst part is that it makes complete sense. Scott decided to intern with Hale Corp after he took a trip with his class to tour the science departments. Word around the superpowered block is that the webslinger got bit by a radioactive spider that was the product of _their_ genetic experimentation.

Stiles knows about Spider-Man, he researched everything _since_ Spider-Man showed up, thoroughly. He never bothered investigating the origin story. There were enough of those, but -- what if Spider-Man’s first appearance was around the same time Scott toured Hale Corp? Maybe Spider-Man knows there’s an actual person inside of the kanima because Scott worked with them on gene splicing, or biomech experimentation, or whatever it was.

It would explain how Spider-Man managed to contain Peter Hale inside the main building of Hale Corp, before Peter got out into the city. Only someone who was already inside, or could get inside quickly, would have been able to do that.

Fuck. The pieces are falling together too well. It feels like it’s _too_ obvious, but Scott is... Scott.

Scott does a great job of blending into the background when he needs to. He smiles shyly and talks quietly and makes accommodations for people. Not exactly memorable, unless you’re outrageously into him like Stiles is. God, Stiles never thought his intimate knowledge of Scott McCall would bite him in the ass like this.

Fuck, he needs to investigate this. Cross-check the people working in the genetics lab at the time of the experiment with any ongoing missing person reports. See what contacts Spider-Man uses for information, see if he can link any of them to Scott.

The idea leaves a bad taste in his mouth, sticky with regret. Okay, he did the stalking for a little while, ran his normal background checks, but this -- _this_ feels invasive. That’s an emotion Stiles isn’t sure he’s experienced before.

Spider-Man’s straightened up now, watching Stiles with his head cocked. If it is Scott’s face under that mask, Stiles can imagine the curious expression perfectly; that little frown that he wears when he has a question, quietly concerned.

There’s a weight at the bottom of his stomach, and Stiles doesn’t like the feeling, isn’t used to the feeling. The disappointment is an ache at the base of his skull, and he hates it. He wants to shoot something. Someone.

“Do you have a codename for that thing?” Stiles asks, finding his voice. It’s unexpectedly steady; Stiles forgets how good he is at pretending, sometimes. “There’s always a codename for bad guys.”

“They’re calling it the kanima,” Spider-Man says, with an irritated sigh. “The Daily Bugle was insistent, even when one of their staff pointed out that while kanaimas were shape shifters, they tended to be jaguars in South American mythology.”

“Wow,” Stiles says, with a shocked gasp. “I’m not going to ask how you know _that_ tidbit of information.”

“Wikipedia,” Spider-Man says. It _sounds_ like he’s frowning. Honestly, this dude.

“No, the thing about the Bugle.”

Spider-Man is silent for a beat.

Maybe it's a good time to mention Scott McCall freelances for the Bugle in his spare time, usually bringing in photos of -- _guess who!_ \-- Spider-Man. Scott was probably the ‘member of the staff’ that commented. Stiles feels like an idiot for not suspecting Scott sooner, honestly. This is why getting attached is a liability. Caring about other people is like putting on blinders. It never works well, is likely to get him shot in the ass more than anything.

But it’s _Scott_. Fuck.

“Facebook,” he says, firmly. Bullshit. Stiles snorts, loudly.

“ _Okay_ , Webs. So, there’s a person in there,” Stiles says. Not a giant lizard monster created in a lab, but a gene-spliced human with an organic mind control device wrapped around its brain stem. Fun times! “Who is it? How do you know?”

“I’ve been in this city a long time, Deadpool,” Spider-Man says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter who, only that they’re there.”

He sounds exhausted. Stiles deliberately ignores the goosebumps he gets from Spider-Man calling him by his alias. That’s not what this is about. This is about the existential dread building in his chest and the inevitable confrontation he’s going to have to have. Apparently, Spider-Man thinks it’s okay to leave out details, too.

“So, you know things,” Stiles says, sharply, annoyed. “But this is _your_ city, and you’ll deliberately withhold information?”

“Some things are better withheld,” Spider-Man says, firmly. Stiles wonders if that’s a hint. Then he wonders, if Scott is Spider-Man, does he know that Stiles is Deadpool? If he does, then is he setting Stiles up? Did he fabricate the coffee incident to get to know Stiles? The paranoia is choking.

“Whatever you fucking say, dude,” Stiles bites out, wishing his head would clear. “Don’t come crying to me when shit goes sideways because you’re hiding things.”

“You’re a pessimist,” Spider-Man says, rolling his shoulders and shifting his weight to his heels. He’s about to take off. Good fucking riddance. “Maybe I’ll tell you, if I ever get around to trusting you.”

“‘If’?” Stiles asks, snapping out of it long enough to be offended. “You mean ‘when’, right?”

“Maybe I would trust you if you stopped threatening to kill everyone,” Spider-Man says, with a shrug. Then, he’s off, wrists spitting webbing across the gap between the buildings, clinging to the fire escape where the kanima was.

“I’m a mercenary, Webhead!” Stiles yells, as Spider-Man yanks and slingshots himself to the other building. “It’s literally in my job description!”

“Maybe you should find a new job!” Spider-Man yells back, before disappearing completely.

“Cocksucker,” Stiles says, viciously. He calls an Uber his way down the building, trying to ignore the way his stomach is sour.

The more he thinks about it, the less convinced he is that Scott _is_ Spider-Man. He still gets confused easily, sometimes. Maybe that’s what’s happening. Not enough sleep. One too many hits with the snake. Maybe he misses Scott, and he’s projecting that onto Spider-Man due to his hero-boner.

The whole thing is fucked up. He’ll see Scott tomorrow, and it will all be okay.

 

 

Nothing is okay.

Stiles probably shouldn’t have gone to the coffee shop while Scott was on shift, but he was so antsy he couldn’t stand it. The night before, he called Lydia and filled her in on the _kanima_. Not the fact that he thought Scott -- sweet, precious, pure Scott -- was Spider-Man, but everything else. She was happy with the information, especially the possibility of there being a person inside of that thing.

He didn’t get the jargon, but the short of the long was that if it was a human, it would probably be easier to retrieve from the obtrusive mind control.

There was no way he was sleeping, so he hacked the Hale Corp employee records and BCPD’s databases to find missing people. There were a decent number of missing, deceased, and unidentified people tied into the Peter Hale debacle. It was a short list in comparison to other lists he’s made with similar content. Once he cross-checked them with people Scott was working with and around at the time of the lizard genetics project, the list got even shorter, but it was only a potential list of possible leads.

Stiles wasn’t finalizing his thoughts on the matter until he saw Spider-Man with his mask off. There was still a chance -- however motherfucking small and nearly nonexistent it was -- that Scott wasn’t Spider-Man, that all to coincidences of character were only that. Coincidences.

Now, he’s waiting in line with a rock in his gut, nerves jittering. He’s never been this nervous to see Scott. Usually it’s a happy, bubbly feeling, but he can’t shake the dread. When he gets to the counter, Scott lights up, like always.

Obviously, it’s only Stiles who feels the stifling tension in the air.

“Hey you,” Scott says, low and flirty. Stiles musters a smile, but it’s not convincing. Scott frowns at him. “The usual? I can grab a break right now.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “That sounds really great.”

He can be normal, totally normal.

By the time Scott comes out with both their drinks, Stiles has worked himself up a decent amount. Not that anyone could tell from looking at him, but his palms are sweaty and his knees feel like jelly. He’s not used to feeling this panicked; usually he has things under control. If he doesn’t, he pretends he does until control happens.

With this, he’s at a total loss.

Emotions are absolute shit.

“Hey,” Scott says, sliding across from him. Stiles didn’t even see him approach, that’s how fucked up this has him. There’s that quietly concerned look on his face that Stiles imagined Spider-Man wearing the night before.

“Hey,” Stiles echoes, with that unconvincing smile of his. Scott’s face doesn’t change.

“You okay?” he asks, sliding Stiles’ coffee over to him. Stiles takes it gratefully. Caffeine is so necessary for his brain to function at semi-normal levels, and Scott makes the best coffee in Beacon City.

“Yeah, didn’t sleep much,” Stiles says. It’s not a lie, but if Scott is Spider-Man, he probably knows it’s not the truth. Scott’s face doesn’t change.

“Researching?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. On this job he’s a ‘novelist’ from a small town, in the big city for inspiration. Total immersion, or something like that. Stiles can’t write to save his life, but it explains why he doesn’t need to go into a job location and why he won’t tell Scott about his project. Writers tend to be sensitive about their work when it’s in progress, or so he’s heard. “Long night.”

“Maybe you should take a break?” Scott suggests, gently. “You could spend the night. Movies and raunchy sex usually help you decompress.”

That makes Stiles laugh, heartbreakingly fond. It reminds him how head-over-heels he is for Scott. The short amount of time they’ve had together has probably been some of the best moments of his life, barring his dad and mom and his childhood sweetheart, Malia. His parents are dead and Malia thinks _he’s_ dead, so there isn’t a chance for more of that kind of thing.

But Scott. Scott is here and present and now.

Scott is probably Spider-Man.

“I should get some writing done tonight,” Stiles says. The frown on Scott’s face deepens, but he’s nodding in agreement.

“Don’t want to let all that research go to waste,” Scott says, with a small quirk of his mouth. When he reaches across the table, his hand is warm from his cup. Stiles lets himself feel the happiness that bubbles in his chest because of it.

“You’re too good to me,” Stiles admits. It’s not a lie. Anyone else would have been disappointed to have their offer turned down, but Scott’s genuine with every word that he says. Every sentiment he expresses. A merc like Stiles doesn’t deserve that, and yet here he is.

“Only as much as you deserve,” Scott says, with that silly grin that makes Stiles’ heart flip like a half-cooked pancake. It’s a lie, but like Stiles said, Scott genuinely believes it. That makes everything so much better and so much worse at the same time.

Stiles makes a noise of disgust to deflect the amount of emotion that’s swelling in his chest.

“Oh, give me a second,” Scott says, getting up. He gives Stiles a crooked and shy smile. “I forgot something in the back.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, with a smile that’s more convincing than the others have been. Scott seems to see it, too, because his grin gets wider. Stiles watches the sway of his ass in his tight black pants as Scott disappears into the back.

It only takes a minute for everything to go to shit. One minute of that happy feeling in Stiles’ chest; one minute before the sharp point of a needle drives home, that feeling explodes, and it slithers into Stiles’ stomach, slimey and unforgiving.

There’s a low vibrating across the table from him, and the screen of Scott’s phone lights up, right there, for all the world to see, and Stiles -- Stiles leans over without thinking, driving that metaphorical needle straight into that bubble of elation.

It just says _MJ_.

Only it’s not an ‘MJ’ at all. Stiles’ heart pounds hard, veins going cold.

It’s Allison fucking Argent, all dark hair and dimples; looking nothing like the rest of her family. That’s a face he could pick out of a crowd with no hesitation. Red edges the corners of his vision. He knew she was here, he fucking knew it.

There she is, on Scott’s phone, taunting him. Questions start racing through his mind, veins tight with anger. How does Scott know her? How long has he known her? Since she pulled turncoat on her family, or before? Does she know about Scott’s maybe secret identity? Does Scott know about her _fake name_ and her _fake life_?

It’s hard to imagine that Spider-Man doesn’t know about the Argents, doesn’t know about the daughter who betrayed her family; betrayed them by setting up a sting in Beacon Hills with SWAT and the local Sheriff’s department.

An operation that went incredibly wrong right off the bat, because the Argents knew it was happening. Gerard Argent never showed, the weapons never arrived. Kate Argent set up a trap and sprung it, taking out half the block and a handful of cops in a blaze of fiery devastation. His dad included.

Then, Kate got away.

The phone screen fades to black, Argent’s picture imprinted into Stiles’ retinas.

There’s no reason to stay, Stiles has a lead -- two initials. There’s no reason to stay, and yet Stiles is stuck to his seat with his pulse pounding in his temple until Scott comes out of the backroom.

There’s a lazy smile on his face, a silver glint in his hand. Stiles doesn’t have to see the whole thing to know that it’s a key. Probably a key to Scott’s apartment, because that’s how Stiles’ luck works. It’s shitty luck, honestly -- Scott is sweet and good and lovely and _Spider-Man_.

Spider-Man, who drops into the seat across from Stiles and slides the key over the surface of the table, grinning.

“I know we haven’t been seeing each other that long,” he says, nudging his glasses with his knuckles. Stiles thinks: 20 days, 2 hours, and however many minutes with his stomach lodged in his throat. Not even 3 weeks, and there’s a piece of Scott’s heart on the table; Stiles hates the way his own jumps in response. It’s a fucked up feeling of euphoria. “I wanted you to have it, though.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, too caught up in the moment: the glint of silver against the wood of the table, Scott’s phone in his peripheral like a physical weight, the memory of Argent’s face in the pixels.

So fucked up.

It takes too long for Stiles to respond and Scott’s face falls the tiniest amount, grin going tight, eyes confused. Stiles hates that he put that look there, hates that he can’t get his voice to work. This is fucked up.

“I -- I don’t know what to say,” Stiles admits, voice steady. It sounds hollow in his ears. Scott’s grin slips and falls like a kid on roller blades for the first time, so quick and hard that laughter bubbles up in Stiles’ chest. It’s not the funny kind of laughter, it’s the sad kind of laughter.

This is too fucked up.

“You don’t have to take it,” Scott says, quietly, hand twitching on the table like he wants to snatch it back. He fixes his glasses nervously instead. “It’s probably too soon. I get caught up, you know? I’m not sure how these things work for other people. I tend to dive head first. It’s not going to insult me if you don’t --”

Stiles stops him with a hand on his wrist. The movement is too fast for a normal human; he’s too caught up in the moment. Scott doesn’t flinch; he probably saw it coming with those Spidey Senses of his. It probably happened in slow motion for him, insectoid perception all warped for hyperspeed and whatever the fuck it is that Spider-Man has.

“It’s not that,” Stiles says, looking at Scott through his lashes, trying to pretend. It’s hard to remember how to act normal, fuck. He swallows thickly, resisting the urge to say _me too me too me too. I’m head over heels, all deep end over here_. That was yesterday, before he figured it out…

“What is it?” Scott presses, eyes darting back to the counter. The line is getting longer, he’ll need to go back soon. Stiles can stall him out.

“There’s a lot on my mind,” Stiles admits, trying to breathe. This is stupid. Stupid and fucked up. “I appreciate it.”

“But?” Scott says, looking at the table, at the key, at his phone (his phone where he has Argent’s contact information, a photo of her face; they’re best friends, the kind who laugh over 2 minute phone calls and say ‘I love you’ when they hang up; Scott is best friends with Argent; Scott is Spider-Man), at the counter, the line, the table space in front of Stiles. He never looks at Stiles.

“We should talk about it tomorrow,” Stiles says. His stomach does this stupid thing where it clenches tightly, like his body is trying to push out a bullet, struggling around the foreign metal. He wants to puke and scream and throw a fit.

“Okay,” Scott says, finally meeting Stiles’ eyes. Now, Scott is pretending. Stiles hasn’t ever seen this look on his face before: closed off and distant. Like he’s trying to protect himself from Stiles’ rejection. Protect his heart.

Which is ridiculous, considering they haven’t even been dating three weeks, but Stiles isn’t an idiot, he knows he’s halfway to In Love and all the way to Seriously Fucked over Scott McCall. Spider-Man or not, Stiles has been a goner since the day that scalding hot coffee dropped into his lap.

“You should get back,” Stiles says, standing so the crushing weight of the moment will be broken. Everything seems off-kilter now, tension in the room squeezing him around the middle like the kanima’s tail.

“Yeah, for sure,” Scott says, giving Stiles a watery smile that Stiles can’t return. He doesn’t know when he became an honest person like this. Anyone else he would have lied to, _could_ have lied to. Right through his teeth, played domestic and happy, but with Scott --

“I’ll see you,” Stiles says, turning to leave, heart full of splinters. He doesn’t bother waiting for Scott’s reply, can’t make himself look back. The bell above the door tinkles merrily as Stiles flees, boots falling heavy against the pavement, legs like lead. He wants to shoot something. Instead, he pulls out his phone.

“You knew,” Stiles says, low and venomous, when Lydia picks up. She clears her throat at him, daintily.

“Knew what?” she asks, voice a bit higher than normal. She knew.

“About Scott.” He doesn’t want her bullshit or her excuses. He barely wants to hear her voice, but he needs to know.

“I had a suspicion,” she says, with a draw out sigh, as if he’s _exasperating_ her.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” he demands, grip on his phone tightening so much that the plastic creaks under his hand. He loosens up, takes a few deep breathes. God, he really wants to shoot something.

This -- _this_ crosses all of his lines. It was one thing that she wanted him to spy on Scott, but not telling him this _critical_ piece of information when she had a hunch about it, that takes the fucking cake. It’s pretty easy to hate her right now, and that’s not a feeling he’s had for Lydia Martin before.

“Would you have believed me?” she asks, voice snapping over the phone. In the background there are papers shuffling, the scratch of a pen, Lydia’s soft breathing, her heartbeat. “Your head is pretty far up your ass with this one --”

Stiles hangs up on her with an angry swipe, then squeezes the phone until the screen cracks into satisfying splinters, fingers leaving indents in the plastic. The screen flickers black, and he chucks it into the nearest trash can.

It's all so fucked up.

 

 

**20 days, 3 hours, and 3 minutes earlier**

The coffee barely registers as it falls into his lap, hot as it soaks his jeans. The cup bounces off his thighs and drops onto the tile floor, shattering with a sound like a gunshot. The whole coffee shop goes quiet.

Stiles jerks away from the screen of his phone in surprise, eyes landing on the barista who dropped the mug on him. There’s a blush staining his cheeks, eyes wide under glasses with thick black frames. Stiles gets lost in the warm mahogany of them, the way they’re purposefully avoiding his gaze, fixed to his lap where -- oh right, coffee --

Stiles stands belatedly, shoving the chair back from the table. The liquid that didn’t absorb into his pants splashes to the floor.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” the barista says, stammering. He’s swaying back and forth, muscles tense like he wants to bolt.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, with a shrug.

“No, it’s definitely not,” the barista squeaks, finally looking right at Stiles.

The reaction is so instantaneous, Stiles can see his pupils dilate, see the way his breath catches in his chest when he meets Stiles’ eyes. Stiles gets it, when their gazes lock; it feels like he took a battering ram to his chest, head going fizzy and light like soda pop.

“I should --” The barista’s hand circles Stiles’ wrist, and he lets himself be tugged along, no desire to fight against it. There’s a few inches of height difference between them, but this guy is a little more stocky than Stiles, solidly build. The way he moves is hesitant, shoulders slouched and self-conscious.

It’s pretty… endearing. What a weird thing to think about a person. Dogs are endearing, cats -- when they’re not being assholes -- are endearing, bunny rabbits are endearing. People _aren’t_ endearing. On a good day, they’re tolerable, and barely just. But this guy.

A rag lands on his face. Stiles catches it before it drops to the floor, raising an eyebrow at the barista before he wipes off what he can. His pants are cooling and his skin is obviously healed. The barista is chewing his bottom lip, though, giving him a worried look from behind his glasses.

“It’s alright,” Stiles says, to break the silence. “Thick jeans. Didn’t even hurt.”

The tension in the room breaks as the barista’s shoulders slump in relief.

“Oh thank god,” he says, voice quiet, still brimming with anxiety. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get you another coffee. And a scone, or whatever you want, on the house. I’m a klutz, I probably shouldn’t handle the food delivery.”

“Eh, it’s only scalding hot liquid, I’ll live,” Stiles says, in a teasing tone so the barista knows he’s not serious. “There’s no one else in this place I would rather have spill coffee on me.”

“I -- oh,” the barista says, with a smile that’s watery and shy. Stiles beams.

“I’m Stiles,” he says, extending his free hand. The barista blinks at him, thick black lashes sweeping the tops of his cheekbones sweetly. He sucks his bottom lip lightly, teeth digging in, before taking Stiles’ hand.

“I’m Scott,” he says. “Scott McCall.”

“Nice to meet you, Scott McCall,” Stiles says, still smiling. “Maybe you can make it up to me sometime.”

“Well, I’m good for that scone,” Scott replies, forehead crinkling adorably, completely oblivious to the fact that Stiles is hitting on him. Maybe Stiles isn’t leering enough, but Scott seems so _good_ , leering doesn’t seem appropriate.

Scott seems like the kind of person Stiles would hold hands with in a movie theater and shyly walk to the door after a dinner date. Not the kind of person he would drag into a coffee shop bathroom to get off with his mouth before anyone noticed them missing.

“What about dinner instead,” Stiles says. Blatant is probably better, in this case. Scott seems like the type to be politely oblivious because he doesn’t want to jump to conclusions. _Endearing_. Sickening, honestly.

“Oh, like --” Scott’s eyebrows jump up, glasses sliding down his nose. He hastily pushes them up, bottom lip disappearing into his mouth again. If the lip biting is a nervous habit of his, Stiles is going to have a stroke. Death by a tease that’s not even a tease.

“A date,” Stiles prompts, unsure if Scott will go there. Scott’s cheeks get rosy as his smile widens, obviously delighted. Stiles’ heart hop-skips in his chest in response; a rhythmic anomaly that Stiles might be worried about if he didn’t have the cause right in front of him, looking at Stiles shyly through his lashes.

“A date,” Scott echoes. It sounds awed. Stiles doesn’t know what to make of that. Sure, Scott doesn’t seem like he’s the forward type, but he’s _gorgeous_. Drop dead, in fact; Stiles needs to check his own pulse to make sure he hasn’t ascended. If anyone is an angel, it’s this barista. The fact that he’s _awed_ by being asked out on a date is completely mind blowing.

“When are you off?” Stiles asks, unable to help himself. If Scott wasn’t working, he’d insist they go out now. He doesn’t think he could wait a day or two, so after Scott’s shift is his best option.

“Seven,” Scott says, blinking.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me after you get off work?” Stiles asks, restraining himself from giggling. The question seems to reboot Scott. He visibly shakes himself out, grinning even harder.

“I’d love to.”

So, Stiles waits. Rather impatiently. It’s difficult to to just _sit there_ while Scott runs around looking amazing in his jeans, all shy smiles when their eyes meet.

At least he doesn’t have to work. Stiles can tell he’s distracting Scott. Scott keeps looking at him while he’s running the cash register, having to ask people to repeat their orders because he’s not paying attention. It’s a good show, even if Stiles is vibrating in anticipation the entire time.

He probably should have gone and done something else to kill the time, but he didn’t. Instead, he’s on his phone, browsing government databases for a light read. There’s nothing more interesting than watching Scott, though. The way he lights up when he talks to people; the way he seems to be the only person that can hold Stiles’ attention in the whole shop.

He still looks clumsy and awkward at times, hunched shoulders, nervous fingers fidgeting with his glasses every so often, but there’s a confidence lurking underneath. Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it, but he wants to know _more_. He wants to figure out how Scott ticks.

It’s rare that Stiles finds someone he’s truly interested in. Usually, it doesn’t work out. All of Stiles’ work makes him travel around. He can’t have a normal life, can’t settle down. For the most part, he doesn’t want to, content with what he’s doing. All of his mutation and training was for one purpose, and one purpose only. Killing is what he’s good at, it’s what he’s _built_ for.

But --

Scott is throwing his head back laughing, and Stiles has only known him a few hours, but he can already feel the daydream settling in under his skin. Watching Scott, he can almost see a normal life. A university student sitting here, waiting for his boyfriend to get off work so they can go on their date. Unburdened by red ledgers or dead parents or vendettas.

It’s not a life Stiles could ever actually have, but it’s a life that he gets a glimpse of when he sees Scott walking towards him a little past seven, teeth digging into his bottom lip. He’s got a button up on now, rolled up to his elbows. The clean cut, good boy look suits him.

The date is perfect.

Well, It’s a complete disaster.

Stiles is jittery, which makes him run his mouth. He talks about writing a novel, brain retrieving information he glossed over on Wikipedia in the last few days to solidify his fake background. This version of Stiles is from a small town, interested in the city, but not enough to stick around after his novel is done.

This version of Stiles has two parents who are alive and in love, travelling the world in their early retirement. They don’t Skype much, but he knows they miss him. Sometimes he meets up with them, when he has downtime.

This version of Stiles is a little more flirty, a little more carefree. Scott seems to like it, watching Stiles intently. He giggles in appropriate spots, asks questions that keep Stiles talking.

Not all of it is a load of horse shit. Some of it is true.

Soon, Scott’s loosened up enough to talk about himself. He was born and raised in Beacon City, and can’t imagine moving. He tells Stiles about his internship, spitting out jargon that Stiles can’t hope to understand, but that he finds endlessly charming. He talks about his mom, MJ, and the cat at the pound he wants to adopt but can’t because of his lease.

There’s a hot knot at the bottom of Stiles’ stomach, tightening every time Scott laughs, every time he smiles crookedly at Stiles with his eyes sparkling brightly. Stiles isn’t an idiot. He knows that means he’s fucked, but he really doesn’t care.

The diner they go to is shit. The food is rubbery, and Stiles finds a hair in his fries. Scott tells a story and knocks over his water when he’s gesticulating, on his own lap this time. The seats are upholstery, so Scott has to sit next to Stiles in the narrow booth. Their shoulders knock every time they move. It’s awkward having to turn and talk.

It’s really, truly terrible. But Scott hooks his ankle around Stiles’ and smiles at him, and Stiles doesn’t really care about the cold fries or lukewarm burger.

Dinner’s over too soon, and Stiles -- Stiles can’t let Scott go.

“I don’t put out on the first date,” Stiles says, once they tumble out of the diner.

“Uh, okay?” Scott asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, frowning cutely again. Stiles isn’t going to get over that any time soon.

“Luckily, I’m considering the time you spilt coffee on me as our first date and this as our second.”

“Oh, I --”

“You don’t have to,” Stiles says, smirking at Scott in a quietly confident way. “But if you invited me back to yours, the answer would be yes.”

He doesn’t think Scott’s going to say no.

Scott sucks in a breath and watches Stiles for a minute before biting his bottom lip. It’s not the nervous gesture it was before, the fidget that gave away his anxiety. It’s more deliberate, a slow drag of teeth while he gazes at Stiles with intent.

“You want to come back to my place?” Scott asks, with a self-conscious shrug, beaming when Stiles can’t say ‘yes’ quickly enough.

By some miracle of god, Stiles manages to keep his hands to himself. This is mostly accomplished by walking a pace behind Scott and looking at his ass, while trying not to feel nervous about going back to Scott’s place.

He’s done this before. He’s picked people up before, charming his way into their pants, but Scott’s got him all in a tizzy. One of those tizzies that has him grasping for brain cells, unable to process. It’s all white noise and the rush of blood in his ears, headed south.

His attempts to think go out the door when they get into Scott’s apartment and Scott shoves him into the wall, lining them up from chest to hip. The way he kisses isn’t hesitant or self-conscious. He kisses to claim, and Stiles just _lets him_. The frames of Scott’s glasses are pressing the bridge of his nose and his cheek, and it’s so damn _endearing_.

All the muscles in Stiles’ body go slack as Scott licks into his mouth. It’s desperate, but still so damn sweet. Stiles doesn’t know how Scott does it; how he feels so gentle, but so strong. Stiles’ heart is pounding like it wants to jump out of his chest and cha-cha around Scott’s apartment.

“God, you’re so sexy,” Scott says, pulling back. Stiles is still recovering from Scott’s teeth dragging against his bottom lip, blinking the stars from his eyes.

“ _Me_?” Stiles asks. Scott’s glasses are fogging up, smile crooked. “You’re _amazing_.”

“Shut up,” Scott laughs, grabbing Stiles’ wrist and tugging him away from the wall. There’s no time to glance around the apartment before Scott pulls Stiles into his room and shuts the door behind them, hands on the bottom of Stiles’ shirt.

He strips Stiles out of it and shoves him back on the bed, watching him with a wolfish gleam in his eye. Very carefully, he takes off his glasses and puts them on the nightstand before straddling Stiles’ hips with bright eyes.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, suddenly. That shyness is back, evident in the way he lowers his eyes and gives Stiles a small smile. Stiles’ stomach drops like he’s on a rollercoaster. He’s so fucked.

“I’m glad you spilled your coffee on me,” Stiles says, very seriously, hands sneaking under Scott’s shirt to caress the jut of his hipbones. Scott shivers, and Stiles gets distracted by a glimpse of toned stomach and golden skin.

“Words I thought I’d never hear,” Scott says, with a giggle. He tugs his shirt over his head, and Stiles sends a silent prayer to every god he’s ever heard of in thanks.

“I’m gunna send your mom flowers,” Stiles says, absently, running his hands up Scott’s sides, flicking his thumbs over his dusty nipples. Scott inhales sharply, eyeing him.

“Don’t talk about my mother in bed,” he says.

“I need to _thank her_ ,” Stiles says, leaning up and capturing Scott’s mouth with his. The taste of coffee lingers between them. Stiles swears he can hear both of their hearts rumbling in his ears. He’s half hard just from Scott’s weight on top of him. “You’re amazing.”

“So you said,” Scott says. Any retort Stiles has is hushed by Scott’s mouth, the pointed kiss Scott gives him.

Everything slows down from there. Their mouths meet sweetly, over and over and over. Stiles wants to say he’s not in a rush, that he can take his time, but he’s impatient, veins humming with want. He drags his hands over Scott’s spine, nails biting into Scott’s nape and lower back. Scott moans against his lips, encouraging.

It’s not long before Stiles flips them, pinning Scott underneath him and -- he’s even more beautiful like this, if that’s possible. The sun’s long gone, but the lights of the city cut through the window, and Scott’s eyes shine.

His mouth is slick and bitten, smiling sweetly up at Stiles. All the breath is gone from Stiles’ lungs. He’s barely aware of himself, too focused on the warmth of Scott’s skin, how he’s hard in his jeans under Stiles’ spread legs.

Everything about this is more intimate than it is obscene, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that. At all. He literally can’t handle it, so he kisses Scott and makes his way down his chest, lips and teeth training down until he gets to Scott’s hips.

Scott groans when Stiles strips him of his jeans and palms his cock.

“You gunna --?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, nipping at Scott’s thighs. That makes Scott arch and groan, so he does it again, mouth worrying the skin until Scott’s hand sinks into his hair and pulls. He grins up at Scott before tugging down his briefs and taking his cock in his mouth.

Scott is deliciously noisy, moaning in appreciation as Stiles sucks him down. He lets himself go slow, feels the weight of Scott’s cock in his mouth, Scott’s hands in his hair. It’s far more focused than he’s let himself be in a long time, and Stiles loses himself in it.

His hands span Scott’s hips as he keeps him pinned, fingers denting the flesh there white. Not hard enough to bruise, though Stiles thinks Scott would look so damn pretty all bruised up. That’s not his call to make, not with it being their first time and all, but -- Stiles wants to claim Scott already.

He knows he’s fucked, but he’s past caring as Scott grips his scalp and begs to come, tongue tripping over Stiles’ name in a way that’s so pretty and so desperate.

The strain is making his jaw numb, but he doesn’t care, just fucks his mouth down on Scott’s dick with purpose. Faster, slower, making it last until Scott is practically sobbing, fingers scrambling against the sheets.

He’s beautiful like this; sweat on his heaving chest, eyes glistening down at Stiles like he can’t tear them away. It’s fucking ridiculous -- how proud Stiles feels because of it, how it makes his heart balloon like it’s full of hot air.

That’s something to be examined later, probably. Once he’s done making Scott squirm.

When Scott comes, it’s with a cry of relief. It sounds like Stiles’ name, one big gasping exhale that Stiles wants to record and play over and over and over. Something to jerk off to later.

Scott laughs when Stiles pulls off, licking his lips for the last of Scott’s taste. He tugs Stiles up and shoves his pants down with a giggle. It’s clumsy. His fingers take too long over Stiles’ button and zipper, dipping into his boxers before changing his mind and shoving them down roughly, all with his tongue in Stiles’ mouth.

This is fun, Stiles thinks, wildly. Then, Scott’s hand is on his dick and he can’t think at all.

Scott’s grip is tight, and Stiles’ toes curl in his socks, back arching as he tries to get leverage to fuck into the circle of Scott’s fist. Scott’s still giggling into his mouth, biting his lips aimlessly. His mouth presses against Stiles’ cheek, his neck. His breath ghosts over Stiles’ ear.

“Come on,” he says, whispers, really. “Come on, Stiles.”

Stiles likes the sound of his name curling off Scott’s tongue, like he’s begging. It makes him groan. He pants and slams his eyes shut, lets himself feel it as Scott speeds his hand up, leaning up enough to reach behind and grip Stiles’ ass, pulling him in closer.

His breath hiccups in his throat as Scott’s fingers sneak down the back of his briefs, playing along his crack curiously. Stiles groans, bites at Scott’s mouth in warning, and comes between them with a shudder.

They fall together, laughing and nuzzling. All of the muscles in Stiles’ body are exhausted for a full three seconds before the strain heals up and he feels fine. That was --

“Wow,” Scott whispers, lips still lingering over Stiles’, still close enough to kiss. So Stiles does. He kisses Scott over and over and over. He presses Scott back into the pillows and keeps kissing him until Scott is squirming underneath him, hot hands on Stiles’ side, fingers playing up his ribs.

“Wow,” Stiles echoes. “That was fucking bomb.”

“Oh my god,” Scott groans, but he’s smiling.

They lie in the dark, wrapped around each other. Stiles can’t sleep if he’s not in arm’s reach of a gun, but it’s nice to listen to the way Scott breathes as the city breathes outside of the apartment.

It feels like a daydream. A normal life.

It’s a lie, but Stiles doesn’t fucking care at the moment. Too content. Way too content. _Dangerously_ content.

“You can’t stay,” Scott says, after a few long moments of lying there. It sounds like an apology.

“Wow, a toot and boot, Scott McCall?” Stiles asks, mock offended. Maybe it’s not all mocking. Something in his stomach is curled like month old milk, and Stiles has no idea what to do with this _feeling_. “Didn’t think you were the type.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Scott insists. Stiles can hear the pout in his voice. He absolutely doesn’t smile at the sound of it. “I have to go into the lab at 5AM. I won’t sleep if you stay.”

“Fine, fine,” Stiles says, dismissively. It’s long-suffering, but he gets it. Sort of. He’d take the promise of orgasms over sleep any day. “I see how it is.”

The kiss he drops to the crown of Scott’s head probably nullifies his faux annoyance, but whatever.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to pull on his clothes. Scott walks him to the door, looking more self-conscious than ever in his briefs, teeth going at his bottom lip again. They cleaned the jizz off their stomachs, but his hair is still a wreck, eyes still glossy from coming his brains out. Stiles feels so accomplished.

“Gimme your phone,” Scott says, holding out his hand, wiggling his fingers. Stiles complies, stomach lighting up with creepy crawlies. The good ones.

“Does this mean I get a second date?” Stiles asks, watching Scott’s fingers punch in a number and save it with his name attached. Fucking score.

“Third,” Scott corrects, handing it back with a shy smile. “Our first date was the time I spilt coffee on you.”

“Oh right, how could I forget?” Stiles keeps his face straight, but the corners of his mouth are twitching.

“I have no idea,” Scott says, with an eyeroll that’s not entirely genuine. Endearing, really. “It was only a few hours ago.”

“It was,” Stiles admits, shrugging. It’s all an act; playing it off and keeping it cool. His head is spinning, light and dizzy like he’s on a carousel. Only the carousel is headed for imminent destruction. Not that he gives a shit.

He really, really doesn’t give a shit.

“Call me,” Scott says, with a shrug. He leans over and kisses Stiles again, rough and steady. Stiles fights against the urge to melt into him. Now’s not the time to get all gooey about a boy that he only met this afternoon.

(It’s way too late for that. Stiles is pretty fucked.)

Stiles waits until Scott’s door slides shut, until he reaches the bottom of the stairs, before scrolling through his contacts. The phone picks up on the second ring.

“Forget something?” Scott asks, voice full of laughter, bubbling over. Stiles is so full of warmth, he wants to punch something.

“Wanted to make sure you didn’t give me a fake number,” he admits, grinning. Hopefully Scott can hear it in his voice, the giddiness, the way he’s teasing. “Rejection hotline, or something.”

“I would never,” Scott gasps. He’s still giggling. Stiles is so fucking charmed. “I have lunch at 11:30. You should meet me at the Happy Bean.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, cautiously hopeful. Scott laughs at him for that, but it’s sweet; exactly what Stiles wants to hear.

“Please do.”

“Anything you want,” Stiles says. He’s not exaggerating.

He’s so fucked.

 

 

**Present**

The journey from the roof to balcony is an easy one. There are ledges and crevices to shove his boots and fingers into. Stiles makes quick time onto the balcony. The floor to ceiling windows that look over the city are shut tight, view inside hindered only by sheer white curtains on the other side. Doesn’t do much for privacy, but considering how far above ground they are, it’s not necessary.

Stiles goes to the window furthest from the bedroom, slipping a flat blade between the sill and the window pane to unlatch it. The window doesn’t even creak when he slides it up, slipping inside, boots dropping lightly onto stone tile. He’s in a large living room with uncomfortable looking furniture, chrome and glass and stiff cushions.

The penthouse apartment of one Marie-Jeanne Valet, Scott McCall’s infamous ‘MJ’.

Technically Marie-Jeanne has been around for 19 years; born in some rural town in the middle of the Great Plains. She has a birth certificate, school records, and even some doctor bills that her ‘parents’ never paid. It’s all a steaming pile of _shit_.

In reality, Marie-Jeanne didn’t exist until 3 years ago. Allison Argent needed an alias and MJ was born. A shaudy paper trail was constructed -- _wham bam thank you ma’am_ \-- she was a real person. Argent ended up in Beacon City with a shiny new background and government protection. She enrolled in the local high school, where she met one Scott McCall, and the rest is history.

Well, not actually. There are still gaps in the data, information that needs to be filled in, but Stiles is working with what he has. The operation that got his dad killed was two years ago. He assumes she defected beforehand, then worked with Beacon Hill’s Sheriff’s Department to set the Argents up using their old contact info.

 _Or something_.

He’s not super invested in that, if he’s being honest. All he needs is Argent.

Stiles was expecting the penthouse, the large apartment that she lives in all by herself. An Argent in witness protection is still an Argent. It’s not exactly low profile, especially with her family still out and about, killing innocent bystanders. Whatever works for her. Stiles doesn’t _care_. She’s alive, she can give him information and/or be an enticing worm on the end of Stiles’ lure. Helping him get to her family would practically be a public service.

Stiles creeps into the bedroom, footsteps careful and quiet. It’s almost too easy.

The moon and city lights illuminate the room, he can see Argent clearly. Her face is slack, sweet in sleep, curled on her side. Her inky black hair fans out behind her like a halo, neck and collar pale in the moonlight, eyelashes black and heavy against her cheekbones. It’s like someone set the scene as his shadow stretches across her.

He creeps towards the bed, weighing his options: draw the swords and stab them into the mattress on either side of her head, hello wake up call!, or use his guns. Less finesse, more threatening.

Argent decides for him. He takes two steps and she’s up, gun in her hand, aimed at his face. He has one of his guns pointed at her too, just as quickly -- quicker even, by a millisecond at least. They stare at each other, breathing shallow, waiting.

The black pistol was probably stashed in a holster drilled to the bottom of her nightstand, or under her pillow -- that can’t be comfortable --

Allison shoots first.

Stiles manages to move out of the way quick enough so that the bullet grazes his cheek, cutting through the leather of his mask, stinging. Blood wells up, sticky and warm. Allison moves, darting over the bed, and down the hall.

“Fuck!” Stiles says, running after her, trying to listen for her footsteps. Technically, he could shoot her in the back of her leg and bring her down, maybe put on an extra burst of speed and tackle her, but he takes it easy, not worried too much about it.

Where will she go? Sure, she has _guns_ , but he has a Wolverine regen ability and nowhere to be tomorrow.

Of course, his mistake is underestimating her.

Her elbow hooks into his face when he rounds the corner, throwing him off enough for her to slam his gun hand into the wall and knee him in his stomach. She throws her shoulder into his solar plexus, smashes her palm into his face, and elbows him in the temple. It’s quicker than he expected, way more aggressive.

Dazed, he manages to push her off of him, flinging her across the room. His jaw heals as he blinks away the black spots. There’s a phone on the floor, her thumb pressed to the surface of it. It lights up bright red, and Stiles shoots it, bullet lodging neatly in the screen, just shy of her fingernail. She snatches her hand back, giving him an offending look, but it’s not a flinch, it’s self preservation. He can dig a chick who doesn’t jump when she’s getting shot at.

“Wasn’t expecting you here,” she says, slowly, standing. The gun is trained on his face again. Her index finger twitches along the trigger, like she wants to slip her finger inside, pull the release, and get him right in the middle of his forehead.

“You know who I am?” he asks, flattered.

“Yeah, maybe,” Allison says. Shifting her weight, keeping her eyes on him. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to talk,” Stiles says. “And by ‘talk’, I mean kidnap you.”

“ _Kidnap_ \--”

“You know you can’t kill me,” he says, easily. Her face stays steady. He wonders if her pulse is racing, or if she’s as calm on the inside as the outside. Even his heart is jumping, for no reason. The adrenaline, probably.

“You’re right, I can’t,” Allison says. She keeps her gun up, level, steady. “I don’t think six bullets in your head would be fun for you, though.”

“Probably not,” he admits. There’s a line. Getting a clip full of bullets to the skull is crossing that line. He’s still pretty bullet wary from the incident with the Calaveras. It took ages to dig out that metal.

“What do you want to _talk_ about?” she asks, standing slowly. The air around her barely stirs as she moves. Stiles can practically hear the air quotes in her voice.

“Your family,” he says, lightly. There’s no responding flinch. Not that he thought she would react, she probably guessed at that.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks.

“I said _kidnap_ , not _kill_ ,” Stiles says, with a scowl. Not that she can _see_ his face, but she might be able to hear it in his voice. Okay, so obviously she knows who he is and what he does, but she shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Sometimes he’s diplomatic… if the pay is high enough.

“I’m sorry for assuming that an assassin might be here to kill me.”

“I forgive you,” Stiles says, easily. “All I need is for you to accompany me to a little rendezvous with --” the sound of webbing slicing through the air and smacking concrete is becoming way too familiar by now -- “oh my _god_ , do you have him on _speed-dial_?”

Spidey swings through the open window behind Allison, arching gracefully and landing next to her, shoulders squared at Stiles. His posture is more rigid than normal, angry. There’s none that lazy slouch and amiability.

“I might,” Allison smirks, finally lowering her gun. With Spidey here, she has nothing to be afraid of. Stiles should put his gun down too, give up and surrender. Forget _fighting_ Spider-Man, he can barely look at the big bug, considering what he knows-slash-highly-suspects is behind the mask.

“It’s an emergency signalling app for iOS and Android,” Spidey says, cocking his head at Stiles. Of course it is. “Want to tell me what you’re doing in this apartment?”

“Want to tell me why you have Allison Argent on speed dial?” Stiles asks, aiming the gun at Spidey’s face. A bluff he hopes no one calls him on.

“It’s an --”

“Emergency signalling app, I know!” Stiles says, sighing heavily. If they ditched the masks, he would be laughing, but this isn’t a situation he can make light of. It’s all pretty fucked up. Really fucked up. Super _duper_ fucked up.

“Allison is under government protection,” Spider-Man says, slowly, palms down like he’s trying to placate Stiles. “And my own.”

Allison shoots him a surprised look, eyebrows jumping up her forehead. Stiles makes a thoughtful noise. Now why would _that be_? What possible connection does Argent have with Spider-Man? Maybe he’s her _best friend_?

“Oh, really? Couldn't tell,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. No one can see it, but he hopes they can hear it in his voice. “If she comes quietly, I won't hurt her. No need to protect.”

“That’s convincing,” Allison sneers, creeping closer to Spidey. Stiles is going to retort with something clever and biting, but a deafening screech overrides him. There’s a dull thud on the balcony, the distinguished sound of claws on stone.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Stiles spits, drawing his other gun, sprinting to the bedroom. He stumbles to a stop in front of the bed, boots skidding against the smooth floor, aiming his pistol towards the balcony.

Unsurprisingly, the kanima is crouched outside the windows, beady eyes searching the room. It must have followed Spidey here, tracked him through the city. Its eyes land on Stiles, and it lets out a threatening rumble.

“Guess who followed you home!” Stiles shouts, squeezing the trigger twice. The glass cracks, the bullets missing by a millimeter as the kanima punches through the window. It comes in hissing and spitting and dodging Stiles’ bullets.

“Don’t make jokes about keeping him,” Spider-Man says, flipping into the room.

The kanima shrieks again, going straight for him. Spidey meets it head on, throwing punches and flipping around. There’s so much commotion that Stiles doesn't squeeze the trigger, too worried about accidentally shooting Spider-Man to have the balls to. If it’s Scott in there, well --

“You don’t think he’d make a nice house pet?” Stiles asks, still trying to take aim. Spidey’s fast. Quicker than Stiles would have anticipated, and it makes getting a clean shot difficult. Usually it’s not this bad. Usually he just fucking _shoots_ , but he’s got his panties all in a twist about Scott being Spider-Man, and it’s throwing off his game.

“Don’t think you can litterbox train him,” Spider-Man says. Stiles swears he hears a smile.

“That sounds like a dare!” he says, finally getting a few shots in the kanima’s meaty side.

That pisses it off. It gurgles loudly, glaring at Stiles. Webbing clings to its face from Spidey’s attempts to muzzle it. The webslinger makes the mistake of getting between the kanima and Stiles.

It grabs Spider-Man around the waist and flings him into the wall. The plaster gives easily; the way it breaks is almost comical, cracking and splintering. Spidey’s body puts a hole through the wall, dust exploding out the other end as he flies head-over-ass, landing in front of Argent.

The lizard hisses, leaping through the hole. Stiles shoots bullets at its back, but it doesn’t turn or flinch, too focused on its target. A target that’s not Spider-Man, as Stiles expected.

It bypasses the bug completely and heads towards Allison. She darts away, firing shots over her shoulder as she goes. They run out of the room, and Stiles gets to Spider-Man.

“C’mon,” Stiles grunts, yanking Spider-Man to his feet, pulling him along. He doesn’t know why he couldn’t just run after Allison, leave Spidey dazed and confused. It would be easier to snatch Allison away once he put enough bullets in the gecko, but he couldn’t. “The thing wants Argent.”

“What? Why?” Spider-Man asks, suddenly bright eyed and bushy tailed. Stiles follows as he runs through the doorway that Allison and the kanima disappeared through, follows the sound of gunshots and the scuffling of claws on the stone floor.

Stiles can’t hear Allison. There’s no noise from her feet; she’s not saying anything, she’s completely silent. But the gun is still going off -- there’s a loud clatter, then the loud _ka-cha!_ of a shotgun pump before a blast rings out.

The kanima screams and Spider-Man --

“Don’t kill him!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Allison says.

“Damn right!” Stiles shouts.

Another shot, another scream. Stiles careens into the room, bouncing off the doorframe. Allison has a Mossberg pointed at the ceiling where the kanima is dangling, screeching at her.

“It’s trying to kill _me_ , I’m going to kill _it_!”

“Allison!”

“I think you should listen,” Stiles says, drawing his pistols and taking his own shots. He pulls a bit, because it’s _Scott_ \-- well, it’s _probably_ Scott. He aims for the legs, the arms, the tail. Nothing critical, but enough to slow. The lizard is making ungodly pterodactyl noises at them, trying to dodge bullets while hanging upside down, claws dislodging chunks of plaster that rain down on them.

“Just -- give me a sec,” Spider-Man says, shaking out his hands. Both wrists shoot web at the same time, smacking onto the torso of the lizard. Spidey yanks, bracing his feet against the ground, trying to _pull_ the kanima down.

The kanima’s claws scrape and slide over the stucco, trying to keep itself from falling, but Spider-Man’s biceps and quads are flexing, and Stiles knows he’s more than capable of this. Stiles lowers his guns, waits for the moment when the gecko topples.

It comes quickly. Spider-Man yanks hard and shoots two more webs, yanking again, tugging at the kanima relentlessly until its claws dislodge and it drops straight down. It twists like a cat in midair, landing on all fours before rearing up and charging at Spider-Man.

Stiles curses and runs towards them, holstering his guns so he’s not tempted to kill this thing. Apparently, he’s given up the ghost with the Kill The Lizard strategy, he’s doing it Spidey’s way.

Trying to fight the thing in the dark is dizzying. He avoids the tail, remembering what Spider-Man said before about the toxin. It dodges his attempt to punch and kick it into submission, knocks into him like a battering ram, trying to get him on his back before Spider-Man’s boots land against its side and send it flying.

It’s surprisingly easy to work around Spidey, getting in close for blows before moving away to let Spider-Man move in. They trade off, hitting hard and relentless, dodging attacks. The kanima keeps screaming at them, trying to grab them. Stiles gets flung at one point, tumbles into the wall, shakes pictures loose, but he doesn’t stay down -- maybe they can wear this thing out, maybe they can manage --

The next part happens in slow motion. Stiles isn’t quick enough to warn Spider-Man or intervene. Spidey and the kanima are locked arm-to-foreleg, legs and hind legs braced as they struggle against each other. Spider-Man is sliding back towards the open window behind him, boots unable to grip the smooth stone flooring. The kanima’s tail comes down quick as lightning and knicks Spider-Man in the back of the neck.

Stiles sees the moment it takes effect. Spider-Man falls, all his strings cut, muscles going slack. Instead of letting him drop, the kanima grabs him around his waist and flings him like a rag doll out the window and Spider-Man drops like a stone --

“Scott!”

The name tears out of his throat, desperate and hoarse and _terrified_ \--

Stiles doesn’t even think --

He draws a sword and runs faster than he ever has -- the blade drags along the kanima’s side as he passes -- it shrieks in pain, but he doesn’t bother stopping to assess the damage, even as blood splatters his suit with so much force he feels the drops landing on the leather.

The railing surrounding the balcony gives as he launches off it, crippling under the combined force of his weight and speed, and he just -- swan dives off the balcony, folding his arms to his sides to try and fall quicker. Spider-Man has a head start, but he’s flopping around, body flattened out, causing air drag.

They have over a thousand feet to fall, and Stiles knows this is going to hurt, but he doesn’t give a shit. The wind is whistling in his ears as loud as a tea kettle. It feels cold against his suit. The panic is hitting him so hard he can’t feel his fingers at all, breath stalled in his throat, refusing to come out.

Stiles manages to get close to Spider-Man, heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest. He lets out a sob when his hand circles Spidey’s wrist, and Stiles pulls him in close, feels the way they fit together and has no doubt in his mind that Scott’s under that mask. Stiles knows how they fit together, like two interlocking pieces of a really fucked up jigsaw puzzle; he knows who’s in his arms.

Stiles curls his body around Scott’s and turns them in the air so that he’s belly up. So that his back will strike the ground first. So that he’ll absorb the impact. So that Scott won’t _die_ when they hit the concrete.

The top of the building is getting further away, the screams from the few people on the ground getting louder. Stiles has no idea what happened to the kanima or Allison, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He tightens his grip and prays that his spine will break before anything happens to Scott, and screws his eyes shut, bracing for impact.

It doesn’t register at first.

Stiles feels the asphalt at his back before anything else, but then gravity does its job, and all the force -- the momentum times the velocity at which they fell, divided by the amount of time it took to plummet 100 stories -- slams into his chest. His breath is gone, spine crashing into his sternum, organs squishing together.

There’s one solid _thud!_ and Stiles can feel bones splintering, skin tearing, blood welling up. He feels his skull crack, his lungs burst, his intestines knot. He feels Scott in his arms, feels the give of him, has a millisecond to wonder if he’s even fucking alive, before he passes out from the shock of the pain.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gunna wait and give you guys a giant third chapter, but Aleshia's birthday was yesterday, so I decided to post early! Happy reading <3

Stiles remembers when he found out his dad died. He wishes he could say he remembers his dad _dying_ , or that he remembers _when_ he died, but he doesn’t. All he remembers is the feeling he got when he stood over his dad’s grave. The plot next to his mom’s. 

Stiles remembers the confusion, looking at the date carved into the headstone, wondering if he had the year right. Like maybe his internal clock was a year ahead, because there was no way his dad had been dead _that long_ without Stiles knowing. 

But Stiles had been on assignment after assignment. Chasing leads and tying up loose ends for deals that he didn’t know the details of. All he had were shadowy faces and blood spilling over his knuckles, gunpowder in every breath he took. 

It had been almost two years since he’d managed to detour back to Beacon Hills and spy on his dad. It had been 16 months since they put his dad in the ground. And Stiles had no idea. 

The knowledge was a sucker punch straight to his sternum. Panic attacks were few and far between those days, mind trained out of the reflex since his first kill. All those emotions, the explosion of chemicals in his brain that tipped it into the frenzy, usually got suppressed along with the reality of what he did, but -- 

Stiles remembers sinking to the ground and shaking for hours. It was much too soon, too sudden, too unexpected. It was flame and fire and all consuming rage. 

They knew -- whoever his handlers were, they knew. They didn’t tell him because that was their leverage over him, their one meal ticket to get him to do what they wanted. But, it was over after that. They were finished. 

It was such a contrast to his mom.

Stiles thinks about his mom dying more than he probably should. The slow deterioration of her brain and her health, days spent in the hospital, his growing limbs sprawled over the cold plastic of lounge chairs he refused to leave. Living off cafeteria food and vending machine snacks, cold sodas by the half dozen so he wouldn’t miss anything. 

He remembers the tests. Test after test that showed the same results. Treatments that did nothing to slow the inevitable. Stiles’ own brain felt stuffed with cotton at every moment. The simplest things became incomprehensible to him, too distracted by what was happening with his mom, stomach perpetually lead-lined as they waited. 

It was a steady creep to the end, and Stiles was miserable every minute of it, eyes hot, hands unsteady. It was devastating, but completely expected, lain out before them in clinical detail. Stiles remembers his limbs feeling like dead weights for months, unshed tears pressing the insides of his eyes. 

This is a combination of the two, Stiles thinks, Scott on his lap in the back of a taxi. Looking small, feeling broken and fragile under Stiles’ hands. Pulse sluggish in comparison to Stiles’ own, hummingbird-quick heartbeat. 

Nothing will ever compare to losing his parents, but his knows this feeling. 

The dread of what’s to come anchoring him to uncertainty. Whole world tilted on its axis so completely that Stiles can barely think over the static in his ears. 

The instantaneous feeling of helplessness, of not knowing. The confusion. The all consuming, purposeless rage that fills him. 

The numbness quick on the heels of every other emotion, urging him to shut down, to stop thinking about it, to stop caring. But Stiles can’t. 

It’s Scott. 

He can’t.

 

 

 

It takes hours for Scott to wake up. Hours of Stiles sitting there, watching him, guilt tearing holes in his stomach. He needs Scott to wake up, he _needs_ him to -- he can’t just sit and wait and _not know_. He needs to know how badly off Scott is compared to Stiles. 

The impact was a fucking lot to handle. It felt like his whole body was liquified when they hit the ground. He got them out before the cops showed up thanks to his oh-so-nifty healing factor, bones snapping back into place, all his exploded insides mending themselves. He was almost afraid to move Scott, who didn't heal as neatly or quickly, but he knew he couldn’t let them stay there, snug in their concrete crater. 

Cops weren’t exactly _friendly_ to Spider-Man around these parts, and Stiles has always had an allergy to badges. He breaks out in hives around blue uniforms, it’s a tragedy really. 

So he grabbed Scott and brought them to Scott’s apartment. 

He expects it to look different now that he knows Scott is Spider-Man. He expects there to be some telling detail that he sees and thinks, _I should have noticed this earlier_. A piece of his web cuff or spandex scraps from repairing his suit. Nothing is different though. It’s still the same nondescript apartment; messy with clothes and papers and books, a few dishes in the sink. The curtains are shut tight against the city outside, lamps glowing dull yellow when Stiles flicks them on. 

Nothing’s different at all, but everything is different.

Stiles sighs, making his way to Scott’s bedroom. He gingerly sets Scott down and -- he thinks about sitting there and waiting, but that sounds appalling. Scott could do with some patching up. That’s something Stiles can do, something he’s alright at. 

The cabinet under the sink is full of first aid supplies that he brings into the bedroom. He slips his mask off and tosses it on the desk chair, where it lands next to the tiny pastel purple bear Stiles won Scott out of a crane machine last week. He peels off his sword frog and props it up against the same wall where Scott’s skateboards are lined up.

Scott doesn’t move when Stiles kneels next to him on the bed, doesn’t flinch as Stiles gets to work. The spandex of Scott’s suit is more flexible than Stiles thought it would be as he starts to strip Scott. He goes slow, boots and pants first. It takes a lot of hesitant maneuvering to get the top piece off and --

Scott’s lying there in skin tight briefs and the mask. 

The thing is -- Stiles already _knows_. He does know. He feels the truth deep down, like in his _balls_ deep. Scott is Spider-Man. He _knows_. But until he peels off that mask, he can still be wrong. For some reason, that’s making him feel good right now. 

So he cleans up Scott’s torso first, and concentrates on wiping Scott down; the sweat and dirt, the dried blood from gashes courtesy of the kanima’s claws. There’s nothing to sew up. All Stiles has to do is make sure all the bones are set so they’ll heal right. That’s where most of the damage is. There and in his muscles, his tendons. Whatever was strained or torn during the fight and the fall. 

There are fist sized bruises fading from deep violet to sickly greens and yellows on Scott’s chest and ribs, which means he’s healing. All Stiles has to do is wait until he wakes up.

They’re the worst few hours of Stiles’ life. Stiles has been through _a lot_ of shit, but this -- this is the epitome. What Disneyland is for happiness, _this_ is for badness. 

He knows Scott will wake up, because he _has to_. If Scott doesn’t wake up, Stiles isn’t sure what he’ll do. The terror sits like an Acme anvil in the bottom of his stomach; he wants to scream or puke or blow something up to relieve the tension. 

There’s a fine tremor in his hands and Stiles -- Stiles doesn’t ever shake. He’s a straight shooter to a fault. Steadiest hand, and all that, aim tried and true but -- Stiles feels like his whole body is vibrating from how hard he’s shaking. 

It’s impossible to distract himself from it. Scott, lying there on the bed. He’s waiting, he’s waiting. 

It takes Stiles two hours to peel off the mask.

Unsurprisingly, Scott’s face is underneath; soft and slack, sleeping peacefully -- or peacefully unconscious, if that doesn’t actually count as sleep. There are bruises under Scott’s eyes, left cheekbone caved in from _something_ , lips are torn and bloody. 

All of the breath in Stiles’ body locks up behind his throat. It feels like tears are trying to punch their way out of his eyes, but he won’t let himself cry. He doesn’t cry, not really. Not for a boy he’s known barely 3 weeks, no matter how topsy-turvy his world is because of the boy. 

Stiles doesn’t do anything. Can’t do anything. He sits there, and he waits. Time drags on, slow like molasses, too slow. Stiles wants to jump up, pace, shake Scott awake. He wants to charge out the door with two semi-automatic rifles in his hands and find that stupid fuck of a lizard. He wants to go go go --

He can’t make himself do any of those thing, limbs full of lead. All he can do is watch the rise and fall of Scott’s chest. All he can do is wait. 

Around hour four, Scott’s eyes flutter open, forehead creasing in confusion. 

“Wha’ --” he says, voice thick. He props himself up, slowly, hand dragging against the back of his mouth. His eyes meet Stiles’ in the dark, darting all over his face, down his body. Stiles is still wearing his suit, right.

Buh-bye anonymity. In all the commotion, he forgot to give a shit about his secret identity, about what Scott might think. 

“Hey baby boy,” Stiles says, softly. He wants to lunge at Scott, pull him into a bone-crushing hug. He wants to whisper relief into Scott’s skin. He wants to sob. But he stays still, stays steady. He waits. 

“How did we…?” 

“I brought you here,” Stiles says. “I hope it’s okay. It was closer. Y-you fell.” He’ll go to the grave denying the fact that his voice cracks on those last two words, heart aching in his chest.

“The kanima’s tail,” Scott’s hand sneaks to the back of his neck. There probably isn’t a sign that he got nicked anymore. No scratch, no threat of a scar. Whole, unblemished skin, nothing to hint at what happened. 

“Pretty gnarly fall,” Stiles says, nodding slowly. Scott nods too, their eyes catch again. There are butterflies in the pit of Stiles’ stomach, making him nauseated. He hopes he doesn’t look sick, hopes he looks sure of himself even though he’s feeling wildly out of his element.

He doesn’t know what Scott is going to say. He has no idea what he _wants_ Scott to say. 

“Thanks,” Scott says, quietly. “For catching me.” He’s looking at Stiles’ suit again, eyes darting to the floor where Stiles discarded the Spider-Man suit. 

“Anytime,” Stiles scoffs, trying to loosen the iron fist around his lungs. If he can manage to shake off all this tension, it’ll be fine. 

It takes Stiles a minute to summon the courage to ask. “When did you figure it out?”

“What?” Scott asks, tilting his head. 

“I mean, you’re not exactly in shock and awe that I’m the one behind the mask,” Stiles says, trying to ignore the panic wells up inside of him, the kind that’s been on his heels since he figured out that Scott was Spider-Man. 

The little voice in his ear keeps telling him that everything with Scott was a set-up, that Scott knew the whole time, that he was playing Stiles the whole time. Stiles feels so sick. Fuck.

If Scott didn't have any idea, this would be a shock, but Scott's completely unfazed. 

“How long have you known?” Stiles asks. 

Scott looks at him with wide, worried eyes. Fuck. 

“Since the docks,” Scott says, watching him carefully, sitting up a little more straight. More alert. Stiles realizes he’s fingering the gun at his hip and lets his hand go loose, casual. 

“Not before?” Stiles asks, knowing his voice betrays his wariness. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Scott. He just, you know, doesn’t trust Scott. Or anyone. One of the job perks. Better than the health benefits, honestly. 

“No,” Scott says, frowning, confused again. Realization colors his face quickly. “God, no, Stiles.” He sounds so worried, so sincere. “That was a coincidence. I didn’t -- I wouldn’t --”

“You wouldn’t try to date the mercenary holed up in your territory as a way to get close to him?” It comes out harsher than Stiles intends, but he doesn’t take it back. This isn’t something he wants to make a guessing game out of. He wants to know. He _needs_ to know. 

“The thought wouldn’t even cross my mind,” Scott says, shaking his head. It looks like he means it and -- fuck, Stiles knows. Stiles knows Scott, knows how sincere he is. There’s a hot flash of irritability at himself for even _thinking that_. 

The emotional whiplash is fucking brutal, here.

“I thought it was a mutual secret,” Scott continues, teeth digging into his bottom lip. If he had his glasses on, he’d push them up his nose nervously, but he doesn’t. Right now, he’s not quite Scott McCall, not quite Spider-Man. He’s some combination of both. Or neither. Fuck if Stiles knows. 

“Superhero fight club?” Stiles supplies. “The first rule of spandex is you don’t talk about who’s under the spandex?”

“Something like that,” Scott says, smiling crookedly. Stiles knows he hasn’t seen Fight Club. It’s on their ever growing list of movies they need to watch together, but the reference is transparent. That’s what Stiles likes about Scott. No matter what, Scott gets it. 

“I didn’t know until the first kanima fight,” Stiles admits, feeling that hot curl of anger in his stomach. It might be humiliation, shame, because seriously, how do you not realize that your sorta-kinda boyfriend is fucking _Spider-Man_. “You used your Dad Voice on me.”

“My ‘dad voice’?” Scott asks, incredulously. 

“Not the kinky kind,” Stiles warns, knowing exactly where Scott’s head is at. Scott’s smile curls at the corners. Oh yeah. He knows. “Like the one you use when you’re bitching about the dishes. Then, I noticed your jaw and your body, and it was like, oh shit.”

“Is that why you didn’t take the key?” Scott asks, looking at his hands, the floor, everywhere but Stiles. Well shit. He connected those dots real fast. Not that Stiles would expect anything less.

“I thought you were lying to me,” Stiles says, shrugging. 

That’s the gist of it. He didn’t trust Scott. He _still_ might not trust Scott. It doesn’t come easily. Not that Stiles wants to be a cynic, but he’s been on the barrel end of a gun enough times to know that some people are out there to fuck you over. 

There’s a huge part of his brain that can rationalize things, point out that Scott’s never done anything to hurt him or otherwise. Never sold him out or actually tried to kill him. Scott has a strict no-kill rule and a pretty fucking intense moral code, but there’s always that whispering part of Stiles’ brain, the part that’s paranoid beyond believe. 

Most days, that part of his brain is louder than the rational part. 

“I’m not,” Scott says, with a shrug. He’s looking at Stiles, assessing. The dismissiveness of his words is throwing Stiles off; he expected Scott to get at least a little defensive. Stiles would be really fucking defensive if Scott came at him sideways with that bullshit. 

So, right, he’s a hypocrite. What’s new?

“Okay,” Stiles says, nodding in agreement. What the hell else is he going to do? He can’t argue. Scott as Scott McCall and Scott as Spider-Man are both squeaky clean Scotts. There’s nothing that he’s done that even _hints_ at disloyalty so -- Stiles drops it.

They stare at each other.

“Are we good?” Scott asks. It should probably be Stiles asking that question, but Scott beat him to it. 

Stiles sighs and gets up off the chair, walking over to Scott so he can fall to his knees, settling between Scott’s thighs. He reaches up and cups Scott’s face in both his hands, smoothing his thumbs over Scott’s cheekbones.

“We’re good if we’re good,” Stiles says, nonsensically. Being this close to Scott always makes his head go weird, spinny like he just got off the teacup ride at Disneyland. Light-headed, airy, pukey, confused. All the good, genuine emotions that Stiles thinks might mean he’s in love with Scott. Fuck. 

“We’re good,” Scott says, with a firm nod. “I don’t want to be not good with you. I want to be good.”

“Me too, baby boy,” Stiles says, before dragging his nose over Scott’s, nuzzling his cheek before kissing him. They kiss softly, gently, but Stiles still feels that frantic buzzing under his skin when their lips touch. 

They pull away slowly, leaning their foreheads together. 

It’s only then that Stiles lets relief spiral through him. He didn’t realize how tightly the feeling was wound behind his ribcage. He wants to sob when he lets go, when he acknowledges that Scott is fucking alive. He’s not a road pancake, he’s not permanently fucked up. Stiles got to him in time. Stiles held him tight. Stiles broke his fall. 

_Fuck_. 

Scott’s arms circle him like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking and -- fuck. Stiles’ hands are shaking again, his whole body is shaking. He doesn’t cry, but he trembles in Scott’s arms and clings to him. He doesn’t want to let go. He never wants to let go.

 

 

 

 

The door bounces with the force of the knock. Scott’s still in the bedroom, so Stiles answers it, hand on the gun shoved in the waist of his sweatpants (Scott’s sweatpants, really). One look through the peephole tells him it’s Allison. She looks annoyed. 

“I can’t believe you brought him back _here_ ,” Allison says, sweeping past him when he opens the door for her. 

“Come on in,” he mumbles, making a sweeping gesture before closing the door behind her. He turns towards her, crossing his arms over his chest. Everyone is so damn pushy lately. This isn’t something he likes having to deal with. “Where else would I take him?” 

“I dunno, your place?” Allison suggests. It sounds like a question, but it _feels_ like an accusation. “I know you have an apartment. What if the kanima followed you here? Do you want the whole world to know who Scott is?”

“What about who I am?” Stiles demands, throwing his hands up. “Did you know too? Because you don’t look surprised to see me without a mask either!”

“I guessed,” Allison says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “The way you screamed Scott’s name when he fell and then _dove_ after him like you had a death wish.”

Well, _sometimes_ he does. Have a death wish, that is. But right now he doesn’t, and that’s probably what matters more than talking Allison through every existential crisis he’s had since he became immortal. That’d be a waste of time, honestly. Anyway.

“I’m not the only one,” Allison says, yanking open her bag and pawing through it. She pulls out a black phone and hands it to him. It looks new, no case or anything. Highly suspicious. “This was on your counter.”

“In my apartment?” Stiles asks. When she nods, “why did you _go in_ my apartment? Did you seriously break into my house?” 

What is _wrong_ with her?

“I thought you had Scott holed up in there!” Allison says, defensively. The look in her eyes is sharp, deadly, accusing. “You weren’t answering! I wasn’t going to stand there pounding on your door like a crazy person --”

“This was in there?” Stiles asks again, attempting to distract her from the tangent he can see forming on her lips. He doesn’t know her, but there’s a glint in her eye that reminds him of Scott when he gets particularly long-winded about something. 

“Yes, it was. Honestly, you can’t complain about a B and E from me, like you’re some sort of upstanding citizen with all that _murder_ you’ve got going for you --”

“Okay, Allison,” Stiles says, holding up his hand. The phone is the priority here, not whether or not she approves of his _job_. Honestly, her and Scott are like birds of a feather with this shit. At least she was willing to kill the lizard. She’s got that going for her. 

“What’s that?” Scott asks, coming out of his bedroom. He’s shirtless, hair sticking up in cowlicks all over his head, sweat pants pulled low enough to show the waistband of his briefs. The skin of his torso is unblemished once again. Everything’s healed up, bruises disappeared overnight. Stiles assumes everything below surface level is fine as well. 

He and Scott didn’t fuck last night, even after the kiss. All they did was sleep, curled up towards each other like two parentheses, knees knocking. When he woke up, Stiles had Scott wrapped up in his arms and he gave himself a moment, or nine, to run his hands over Scott’s unbroken body, letting himself feel all that overwhelming relief. 

It was less like being kneed in the balls during the light of day. It was just relief, plain and simple and not at all debilitating. Other emotions swelled up in his chest right alongside it; stupid, warm, fuzzy emotions that Stiles was getting used to when it came to Scott. 

Feelsy feelings and all that. Stiles is getting them again as he watches Scott. 

Scott gives him a small, knowing smile before turning and beaming at Allison. Everything shifts and changes. Her countenance goes from grim to open, vulnerable and relieved, jaw unlocking, eyes soft. She doesn’t hesitate to stride over to Scott and hug like they’re reuniting in a movie, clinging to each other tightly. They hold on, rocking back and forth while Allison babbles about how scared she was when the kanima threw Scott, how she thought he was dead, how she went to Stiles’, _broke in_ , and found the phone.

Stiles listens with half an ear, holding down the power button on the phone. Someone knows where he lives, wanted to give him a message. It could be S.H.I.E.L.D. They sent Lydia, but there are other operatives that would rather contact him directly than go through her. It could be a job or an old friend or _something_ , but Stiles doesn’t think it’s any of that. 

Mostly, because he’s a paranoid fuck. Mostly, because he’s got that deeply unsettled feeling that he’s learned to trust. Whatever’s on this phone, Stiles probably isn’t going to like it. Unsurprisingly, since there hasn’t been a lot of good shit happening in the past few days. 

The second the phone boots up, it rings. 

Of course it does. Stiles should have been expecting that. He should have been expecting the fact that he would answer it and hold it up to his ear and Kate fucking Argent’s voice would greet him with a smooth, “Mister Stilinski.”

“Why the fuck do I bother wearing a mask?” Stiles sighs. First Scott, then Allison, and now Kate fucking Argent. He didn’t even think he was on Kate’s radar, but he guesses now that he’s been playing with the lizard monster in Spider-Man’s sandbox where Allison has been camping out, he probably put himself on their radar without meaning to. Or wanting to. Definitely not wanting to. He wants to be so far from the radar; Bermuda Triangle, off the radar type shit.

“I have no idea, honestly. You’re not great at the whole secret identity thing,” Kate drawls. It sounds like she’s teasing, amused. Stiles wants to know what’s got her so damn giddy. When he says as much, she laughs at him. “I have your friend here -- say hi, baby.”

“Call me ‘baby’ one more time,” Lydia snarls, in the background. She sounds far away, pissed off. “I will yank your tongue out of your head.”

Stiles’ heart skips a few beats, desperately trying to process what’s happening. The Argents knew where he was, knew enough about him to plant the phone. They knew about Lydia too, which is how they have her now, but --

Lydia’s a mutant. It’s not like she’s defenseless, so _how_ \--

“That’s enough,” Kate says, in cliche movie-villain fashion.

“Are you wearing leather pants right now?” Stiles asks. That whole red-lip, heeled boots aesthetic probably works for Kate; Stiles can practically hear it in her voice. She’s probably the type to flick a lighter while she’s talking, daydreaming about all the arson she could be committing. 

(That’s Kate Argent’s signature. When she ‘handles’ things for the family, she leaves burning buildings and charred corpses in her wake. Stiles has seen the aftermath a couple times, when he was gathering information about her, following the carnage until it went cold in the most literal sense.)

“What?” Kate demands, confused.

“Leather pants,” Stiles asks, tipping his head back against the door. He keeps himself from banging his skull into the wood, but only barely. “Like, you’re going for that whole sultry villainess thing, I thought leather pants would be fitting. Bonus points if you’re cleaning a gun right now.”

“Just villain,” Kate informs him, lightly. Stiles can hear the tap of her heeled boots on the concrete floor of whatever dock-side warehouse she’s keeping Lydia in. Kate’s working the whole cliche package right now. “The whole adding ‘ess’ to things to make it feminine is pretty sexist. We don’t call male villains ‘ _male_ villains’, so why would you specify for a female villain?”

“Excellent point,” Stiles says, nodding. 

In the background, he can hear Lydia say, “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Right,” Stiles says. “So, you have Lydia, my government handler. I suppose you want to trade her out for Allison, so you can exact your revenge on her for selling out the family. Make her sleep with the fishes and all that?”

“Sleep with the -- are you kidding?” Kate asks. There’s not as much amusement in her voice as Stiles thinks there should be. 

“Just yes or no,” Stiles says, eyes darting over to where Allison and Scott are. They’re watching him now, pulled out of their conversation by Stiles’ phone call. He can see the distrust all over Allison’s face. It’s almost enough to make him feel smug about the plan he’s hatching. 

“Yes,” Kate sighs. “That’s all we want, a trade. Then, we can all go our separate ways.”

“And live happily ever after?” Stiles asks. He definitely doesn’t look at Scott when he says that. Definitely. Not at all. 

“That’s the plan,” Kate says, voice low and amused again. Stiles rolls his eyes at her so hard, his extraocular muscles strain.

“Alright, deal,” Stiles says, with a shrug, while Scott and Allison frown at him. Allison looks like she wants to come over and punch him, but Scott’s hand is on her arm, keeping her put. Something warm slithers around in Scott’s stomach. Scott _trusts him_. At least, to a certain extent. 

“Can you text me the details? I have a shit short-term memory.”

“Why the fuck not,” Kate says, with a heavy sigh. Honestly, so uncalled for. “Oh, and Stiles. No surprises. We’re willing to make it worth your while, if you can play along.”

It’s like she’s reading from a super villain script or something, fuck. Are all bad guys like this? Underdeveloped cliches whose only purpose is to advance the character development of the protagonist? 

… Well.

“Pinky promise,” he says, crossing his first two fingers so that it doesn’t count. Karmic precaution and all that. As appealing as getting paid off to chuck Allison into the lion’s den _might_ sound, it’s not. The Stiles he was a month ago might have enjoyed that kind of thing, but the Stiles now doesn’t think it will accomplish anything. Especially when he has a certain webslinger to impress with kept promises and things like saving the day.

The phone goes quiet as Kate hangs up on him without responding. Rude. 

“What was that?” Scott asks, hand still wrapped around Allison’s arm lightly. She doesn’t look like she’s going to lunge anytime soon, she’s just watching Stiles. They both are.

Stiles holds up a finger to stop them from talking anymore, popping off the back of the phone. There’s a magnetic strip on the inside of the frame, thin and metallic, glittering. Of course. At least he thought to ask Lydia what that debugging app was before she went and got herself jacked. 

“Cover your ears,” Stiles says, right before he presses the button. The app shrieks, making both Scott and Allison jump. The metallic strip on the inside of the phone flickers and goes dark. Some tiny micro-computer, probably. Fucking weird. 

“Bugged,” Stiles says, sliding the cover back on. He’ll wait to turn it back on. Once he gets the meet up info, he’ll chuck the thing. One can never be too safe in the face of tech-savvy criminal families. 

“Alright, so,” Scott says. “What was that?” 

“They’re making it easy for us,” Stiles says, with a shrug. “They want a trade, Allison for Lydia. They’re going to give me their location and try to bribe me with money. They’re going to think it will work because I’m a merc -- ha _rhyme_! -- but it won’t.”

“Oh it won’t?” Scott asks, watching him with a small smile on his face. 

“Nah,” Stiles says, smiling back. A little stupid, a little dizzy. “I’m a little reformed, I’ve got bigger priorities here than fucking over Lady Argent here.”

“Do you?” Allison asks, cocking her head. She doesn’t seem upset, just curious with a side of amusement. Stiles likes the way it looks on her. Anything is better than angry at him. “You were just talking about kidnapping me yesterday. What’s changed?”

“Technically, you will be my hostage,” Stiles says. 

This was his plan, actually. Use Allison to lure the Argents out. There was no doubt in his mind that they would want her after what happened in Beacon Hills. She was going to be shark bait, anyway. Now that she’s in the know, she can be even more help, especially since they got to Lydia. 

It’s a stupid curveball, but one Stiles knows he can handle. That might have been the first strike, but Stiles has two more before he’s out. He knows how to bunt his way to first base. All he has to do is run after that. 

Okay, extended baseball metaphors aside, he knows they’ve got this. 

“They probably expect me to be complacent. They expect you to actually be my hostage. They probably don’t know that Spider-Man’s my sorta-kinda boyfriend --”

“What if they _do_?” Allison asks, jumping in. “They know who you are, don’t they? They might have known all along.”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles says, smoothing his thumb over the screen of the new phone, mind putting all the pieces together. It spreads out like a map before him, all the plot points tying together with red strings, all leading up to whatever moment they’ll have with the Argents. The climax. “They would have made their move sooner if they did, they’re impatient.”

“How do you know?” Scott asks. 

“They wouldn’t have taken Lydia if they weren’t a little bit desperate,” Stiles says. He’s pretty sure, at least. “She’s a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. They wouldn’t risk bringing multiple government factions down on themselves unless they were trying to get shit resolved quickly.”

Stiles boots up the phone again. When it flickers to life, it jumps in his hand with an incoming text message. 

“They wouldn’t be proposing to meet up _tomorrow_ if they weren’t in a hurry,” Stiles says, smugly, tossing the phone to Allison. She catches it smoothly, frowning at the screen. 

“Okay, so do we have a plan?” she asks. The look on her face suggests she’s already thinking of one. So does Scott’s, all concentrated and thoughtful frowning. Endearing as hell. Stiles smiles sharply in appreciation. He kind of likes this group effort thing. 

 

 

Stiles is sandwiched between Scott’s warm body and the arm of the couch, cradling a mug of tea, while Scott tells them the kanima’s Origin Story -- capitals, because it’s definitely some comic book realness. It’s oddly domestic, cuddled up with warm beverages with a stack of unmarked guns on the coffee table and his suit is drying alongside Scott’s in the machine.

Apparently, Jackson Whittemore was following in Peter Hale’s footsteps with the whole genetic splicing thing. He was working with his department -- the one Lydia found with all the code names and case numbers -- to apply it to himself. According to Scott, one Matt Daehler convinced Jackson that the experiment would be more successful if they manipulated the brain as well as the cells. 

“That’s where the mind control comes in?” Stiles asks. That was what Lydia said, right? A binding mechanism that attached the the brainstem. 

“It was Matt’s fail safe,” Scott says, nodding. “He must have already guessed the physical alterations were going to be a success and wanted to be the one in control in case Jackson went off the rails like Peter did.”

“‘Matt Daehler’ sounds like the name of a Floridian serial killer, why would anyone trust him?”

“Jackson wanted the power,” Scott says, getting a distant look in his eye that reminds Stiles just how much he and Scott never, ever wanted their own mutations. 

“The grass is always greener,” Stiles mumbles, taking a sip of his scalding tea. Some people are born with mutations and they embrace it; ‘Mutant Pride’ and extra special mutant schools and all of that nonsense. It’s not as easy for the people who didn’t choose the mutations or the life they have to lead because of it. 

“So, someone is controlling the kanima,” Stiles says, right before Scott says:

“The Argents,” with a long sigh, like he’s finally figured it out, and maybe he has. “The kanima was following me, but it took off after Allison in the penthouse.”

“Why would it follow you to find her?” Stiles asks. 

“The family knows we know each other,” Allison says, staring at Scott with an expression that Stiles can’t place. Something like melancholic resolve. 

“How?” Stiles asks. There that feeling in his stomach again, that Acme anvil. There’s another plot twist that Stiles isn’t going to like. 

See the thing is, they have to know about his dad. There’s no way they don’t. They have his last name. Scott, Allison, the Argents. They all have his name. They can run it through any system and find his dad.

He didn’t bother to create an alias because it didn’t matter after his mom and dad were dead. After the version of Stiles before the FTD was dead and buried under who he is now, _what_ he is now. He didn’t give Scott a different name because no big city barista is going to run a fucking background check on their sorta-kinda boyfriend. 

But Spider-Man would, after he figured out Stiles was Deadpool. An Argent would, after she figured out Stiles was Deadpool. It’s resourceful in the games they have to play to survive. 

The red string is there, connecting Deadpool to what happened in Beacon Hills. It’s a straight line from Stiles Stilinski to the Argents through Sheriff Stilinski, so they have to know. And they do, because this looks comes over Scott’s face and Stiles hates everything about life more than he did five seconds ago. 

“They came after Allison in Beacon Hills,” Scotts says, looking down at his cup. Stiles’ insides are vibrating, and he’s relieved that Scott isn’t looking at him, even though he feels sick because Scott won’t meet his fucking eyes. “Kate, Gerard. They knew where she was hiding, they wanted to finish it.”

“You were there?” Stiles asks. It’s quieter than he would like it to be. A month ago, he would have been yelling, but Scott’s got him soft, so fucking soft for him. 

“He’s the one who convinced me to turn over,” Allison says. It sounds apologetic. She knows exactly what that means. She knows, she knows. They both know. “He didn’t want me to go alone.”

Of course he didn’t, because it’s Scott, it’s Spider-Man. Every single thing that Scott does is about protection and dedication to the people he protects. It’s about _saving_ people and second chances. 

The silence stretches between them like an elastic band, tension in the air. Stiles wants it to snap, wants it to break, needs to know the secrets on the tip of Scott’s tongue, the plot twist that Stiles won’t like.

“I let them walk,” Scott says. He’s finally meeting Stiles’ eyes, and his own are glassy, shrink wrapped in tears he won’t shed, face pink. “We didn’t know what happened after the communication with the team cut off --”

“You let them walk,” Stiles says, voice sharp and accusing and still so, so quiet. All of Stiles’ blood is rushing in his head, filling up his ears with white noise. Half the town got blown away by Kate fucking Argent, his dad was dying in the street, and Scott’s saying -- Scott’s --

“Stiles, I didn’t know,” Scott says, gentle but firm. “I didn’t know what they did. I thought they had other men hit the drop while they found us. I didn’t know what they did.”

He touches Stiles’ hand lightly. It takes everything in Stiles not to snatch his hand away, to stay still.

“But you know what they do,” Stiles says, trying not to let the words burn him up from the inside. He’s the one to look away this time, look at Scott’s hand lying on top of his own like an apology. Stiles doesn’t know if he wants it. “You know what they’re capable of, but you didn’t even think about it. You didn’t _do_ anything about it.”

“That’s not fair,” Allison says, voice hard. “Scott doesn’t kill people, you know that. You weren’t there, you don’t know what happened. It was either watch them walk or everyone died. We were matched gun for gun. I was taught to pick my fucking battles. That wasn’t a fight that we could have come out of unscathed.”

“Right,” Stiles says. He can imagine it perfectly in his mind, Allison with a gun, hand steady -- maybe she was scared, but Stiles doubts it. Scott next to her -- no, in front of her, protecting her. Gerard and Kate, maybe more, staring at them down the barrels of their guns. Nowhere to run. 

All at once, the fight goes out of him. Scott doesn’t kill, she’s right, and if. Well, if Allison thought everyone was going to die despite Scott’s superpowered ass being there, then things probably weren’t looking that fucking great. 

If it came to that, then Stiles wouldn’t have a vendetta, but he also wouldn’t have Scott and that -- that thought is actually painful, like a railroad spike right to his fucking kidney. So, he gets it. There’s still anger still sitting at the base of his skull, but he can’t aim it at Scott and let it explode. 

“So why did they have the kanima follow Scott to get to you?” Stiles asks, to move past the moment, the confession. He laces his fingers with Scott’s, trying to hold on tightly. 

“I’m untraceable,” Allison says, with a shrug. “No scent, no heartbeat. You can’t hear me breathe, you can’t track my footsteps.”

Stiles remembers last night at her penthouse, the way he couldn’t hear her moving through the house, could only follow the kanima and the sounds of her gun firing. That makes a shitton of sense. 

“Unregistered mutant,” Stiles says, watching her. “I can see that.”

“Most of the family is,” Allison says, biting her bottom lip and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear nervously. “Kate can manipulate fire.”

“Big shocker,” Stiles says. That explains all the arson. The predictability is pretty dull, but everyone has to play to their strengths, Stiles guesses. It’s not like he’s avoiding cliches by being a ticking time bomb dead set on exacting his revenge. 

“At least that explains why Lydia got nabbed,” Stiles continues. Allison and Scott cock their heads at him in unison. “She’s unregistered, too. Well, she might be registered, but it’s buried deep enough behind government firewalls that the average person can’t figure that out.”

“Maybe she didn’t put up a fight, then,” Allison says. “If she didn’t want them to know that she’s a mutant.”

That makes sense. Damn. Why didn’t he think of that?

“Well, whatever it is, we can use it to our advantage when we bust her out.”

“Of course,” Allison says, giving him half a smile. That shouldn’t feel like some sort of accomplishment, but it does. A smile from an Argent. He’s rolling around in his proverbial grave, but she’s not so bad. He’ll probably get around to admitting that out loud, at some point. 

“Gerard’s the only one who isn’t a mutant,” Scott says. Stiles isn’t surprised that he knows this information. Since, you know, he and Allison are mutated best buds who are in on each other’s secrets. 

“Which is why he needs the gecko to do his dirty work,” Stiles says. “How’d he get ahold of Jackson, then?”

“Matt sold him on the black market,” Scott says. Stiles bursts out laughing, because of course he fucking did. It’s contagious, nerves running through the three of them. They giggle, collapsing into each other and Stiles’ mind runs a mantra of _it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay_. 

It’s not something he’d usually think, but he’s desperately hoping that little voice is right. 

 

 

That night, once Allison is gone, they go through the motions. They cook dinner together, elbows bumping as they make meatballs and spaghetti. This is where they usually talk, chatting over whatever’s cooking. This is where they usually laugh into each other; where they usually crowd each other against the counter until the food almost burns. 

This time, they’re silent as they roll the meatballs and drop them in the sauce to boil, hands sticky with bread crumbs and ground beef. Nothing gets burnt or overcooked. They’re paying attention. 

The tension isn’t suffocating, though. Scott touches him often, a hand on his wrist or low back, guiding him, moving him so they can work together in the cramped space of his kitchen. There’s no light giggling or semi-serious conversations about the new Batman v. Superman movie, but it’s something. 

After they’re done eating, Scott doesn’t hesitate to pull him into the bedroom, coaxing soft kisses out of Stiles’ mouth. It’s gentle, almost devastatingly so. They strip down to their briefs and Scott leads them into bed, hands warm on Stiles’ skin. When they drop, Scott leans back and looks at Stiles.

“Will you tell me about it?” Scott asks. They’re sitting, facing each other. Stiles hasn’t ever seen Scott’s face look this serious before, this earnest.

Stiles wants to pretend he doesn’t know what Scott means, wants to play dumb, but he knows. It’s scary how well he knows Scott. Neither of them have any telepathic inclination, but they have this connection anyway. 

The request makes him hesitate because yeah, he’s done some fucked up stuff. Before all this Scott just knew him as Stiles-the-writer, innocent and carefree. Even after Scott figured it out, well then Stiles was Deadpool. And Stiles is sure Scott knows the stories, what he’s done, but it’s different. It’s different hearing horror stories straight from the horse’s mouth. When Deadpool’s kills are mostly rumor, word of mouth shit, and written reports, there’s a disconnect.

Telling Scott makes it real. 

Maybe Stiles liked the way Scott thought of him before the shitshow. Like Stiles was _Stiles_ , a normal person with a normal life. Little to no adventure other than the movie theater handjobs and backseat blowies. 

Most of the shit Stiles has done is messy. It’s downright terrible, and Stiles doesn’t want to alter the way Scott looks at him, but -- at the same time, there’s nothing he can do to change it. It is what it is. He was built for a purpose, he fulfills his purpose. He _enjoys_ what he does most of the time.

It’s funny that he never thought about it before. Stiles-the-writer didn’t have blood on his hands. Stiles-the-writer was made up, a clean slate, no red to his ledger. Now that Stiles is just _Stiles_ , he feels like he’s tainting the space -- like everything is darker and dimmer and heavier when he’s in it. 

He doesn’t want to inflict that on Scott. Not when Scott is _Scott_. Not when Scott is so whole and determined and full of hope --

“Stiles.” Scott’s voice pulls Stiles out of his head abruptly. He’s watching Stiles seriously, eyes impossibly bright in the dim light of the room. Scott’s hand is warm on his arm, thumb tracing a patient path against his skin. “Where’d you go?”

“Thinkin’,” Stiles says, thickly. The moment feels so vulnerable, quivering under the surface of Stiles’ skin, and it’s almost too much. 

“Tell me about it,” Scott says, again. It’s gentle. A barely-there prod that Stiles knows he can ignore if he wants to, but he doesn’t really want to --

He realizes that he wants this, wants Scott to know. Because if Scott is going to be anything more to him _after_ \-- after the climax, after Stiles does what he has to do to close this chapter of his life -- then Stiles needs to lay it all out there. 

He needs to trust Scott. 

Fuck. 

Stiles leans forward and presses his head to Scott’s shoulder, half in his lap and half not. Then. He talks. He talks and he keeps talking, breath damp and warm against the skin in front of him. He talks as Scott’s hand trails his spine, a hypnotic up-and-down that Stiles latches onto. He talks. 

He starts from the beginning. He tells Scott about his mom, who he was before. He talks about the diagnosis, about running away, about Weapon X. He talks about everything he did for them, stumbling over some of the stories that are soaked with blood and bad choices, thankful that he’s not looking at Scott’s face. He talks about when he found out his dad was dead, how he found out a year later after he detoured during a job and saw his house empty and his dad… He talks about the past year -- destroying Weapon X and hunting the Argents, Lydia’s voice in his ear the whole way helping him plan. 

He realizes she’s the only person who’s really had his back the whole time. His only friend, really. The epiphany hits his idiotic fucking brain like lightning, and he realizes how upset he is that the Argents have her, throat closing up tight, and --

Scott knows, hand on Stiles’ face, gentling him even as Stiles presses his forehead against Scott’s shoulder harder so that he doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t have to see Scott’s face. 

It all pours out of him until he’s wrung out and exhausted. 

It’s the first time he’s ever talked about it. It’s fucking devastating to feel every emotion from the past two years pulled up to the surface. He’s suffocating. He’s exhausted. Scott’s hands on him anchor his breath, and Stiles gives into the vulnerability, letting himself feel and feel and feel. 

There’s no way to tell how long they sit there after Stiles is done. The silence is pressing, broken by their hearts beating, inhales and exhales in sync. Scott’s still holding onto him, nearly clinging, fingertips digging into Stiles’ skin, and Stiles uses the press of his hands to keep his mind from floating away. 

“Thank you,” Scott finally says, after what feels like hours, hand coming up to tangle in Stiles’ hair. It’s gentle, so gentle. 

Stiles unfolds himself slowly, body stiff from the way he hunched over and curled up against Scott. When he looks at Scott, there’s understanding there that Stiles has no idea if he deserves it at all. He probably doesn’t. 

Now that he’s done talking, he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore or _ever_ again, so he grabs Scott’s face and presses their mouths together. It’s messy and desperate, but Scott doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate like he _knows_ exactly what Stiles needs. 

(He probably does.)

There aren’t any clothes to strip off each other, just miles of skin under his palms. Stiles touches Scott like it’s the first time, dragging his fingers over Scott’s cheeks and his neck and his collar bones. He drags his nails down Scott’s pecs and his nipples, fits his hands against the wings of Scott’s ribcage just to feel him breathe. 

(It’s only been three weeks, but Scott knows Stiles better than anyone Stiles has ever met.)

Scott’s stomach jumps when Stiles traces down his abs, giggling against Stiles’ lips. He licks the sound out of Scott’s mouth, tries to hold it in his lungs until his next exhale. He spreads his fingers wide on Scott’s lower belly, pinky and thumb stretched to rest over the jut of his hip bones. 

(It’s been three weeks, but Stiles thinks if people have soulmates, then Scott is his soulmate.)

The noise Scott makes when Stiles sucks a bruise into his neck is delicious, throaty and low and appreciative. Stiles bites harder, knowing he won’t bruise Scott -- sadder for it, but there’s something freeing in the fact that he can push Scott more, knowing that Scott won’t break under his strength. 

They kiss for a long time, lost in the drag of each other’s mouths until Scott fists his hand in Stiles’ hair and tilts his head back, dragging his teeth along the column of Stiles’ throat before grabbing his arms and pushing him back. One hand skillfully tugs Stiles’ legs out from under him in the same movement so that Stiles lands flat on his back with an _oof!_

Scott nuzzles in close to Stiles, noses along his neck, licking over his collarbones. His hands press Stiles down into the mattress, holding him there. There’s more pressure behind his grip now, and Stiles thinks he likes not having to pull back his strength just as much as Stiles does. Heat pools at the bottom of Stiles’ belly, making his skin feel tight and oversensitive. 

Their hips meet as Scott rolls his body down against Stiles’, both of them hard, cocks trapped in their briefs. Stiles is throbbing, squirming, arousal clinging to him, heavy and full of static. He wants to get his hands on Scott, but Scott tightens his grip, smirking in the low light. 

“What do you want?” Stiles whines, lifting his hips to get friction. Scott allows him that, grinding down against him. Both of them gasp, panting into each other’s mouths. 

“Wanna ride you,” Scott says, matter-of-factly. And yeah. Stiles wants that, too. 

Frantically, he nods in agreement, practically headbutting Scott to get to his mouth again. It’s too easy to get lost in the way Scott kisses, the plush wetness of his mouth, all warm and slick. Stiles could probably do it forever, if he wanted to. Kiss Scott until they both combusted from sexual frustration, all the better for it. 

They don’t kiss forever though, because Scott has things to do, apparently. He leans back and gropes the nightstand, grabbing the lube. 

“Can I?” Stiles asks, taking the lube from Scott. As hot as it is to watch Scott open himself up on his own, it’s hotter to have his fingers buried in Scott, feeling the way his body gives for Stiles, so easy and receptive, like he was made for it. 

(Like he was made for Stiles. He probably was.)

“‘Course,” Scott says, pulling back to smile. It’s different from the smirk, happier around the edges. His eyes are hooded, watching Stiles as he sits up, arm wrapping around Scott’s waist to arrange them more comfortably. 

They’re pressed together tightly, chest to chest, so that Stiles can wrap his arm around Scott and tease his hole from behind, feel him shudder in Stiles’ embrace. Goosebumps break out on Stiles’ skin when Scott starts licking at his neck, lapping up the sweat there, biting every so often as Stiles slicks up his hand. 

Stiles pulls back to watch Scott as he presses the first finger in. The look on his face is incredible, mouth dropping open, pink and inviting. His eyelids flutter, low whine coming out of his throat that Stiles echoes reflexively. Stiles fucks his finger in and out while Scott rocks with the motion, pushing their cocks together, a delicious drag of friction. 

The air between them is heavy and hot, sweat forming where Scott’s sitting on Stiles’ thighs. Not being able to breathe makes the whole thing better, even as his lungs swallow greedily. The sweat rolling down Stiles’ chest makes him feel like he’s working harder, goosebumps across his skin, prickling the back of his neck. The sting in his wrist from the cramped angle is grounding, delicious in a way that Stiles doesn’t really get. 

It’s all so shockingly real, but so much like a dream. Stiles can barely handle the contrasts.

There are scratches on Stiles’ arms from how tightly Scott’s gripping his skin, short nails biting in. Scott’s whimpering sweetly when Stiles works the second one in, circling his hips to get nudge Stiles deeper. He’s never met anyone who likes being fingered as much as Scott does. This is something they could do for ages, wrapped up in each other, unwilling to stop because Scott loves it _so damn much_. 

Stiles catalogues every sound, every soft hitch of Scott’s breath, every barely-there whispering of Stiles’ name. He memorizes the way Scott moves, the graceful roll of his stomach as he rocks back against Stiles’ hand. 

“Fuck, Stiles.” Scott’s whining again, little needy noises jumping out of his throat that make Stiles ache. He’s not going to ask for another finger, Stiles knows, content as he is. Stiles would love to get to the riding part, though, so he stretches Scott further.

“Goddamn,” Stiles says, as Scott inhales sharply, like he didn’t expect it, cocks sliding together quick in a way that _Stiles_ wasn’t expecting. Scott grinds back, desperately, like he needs more. Stiles speeds up his hand just to see Scott squirm, to make noises jump out of his throat. 

“Okay, okay, please,” Scott groans, pressing demanding kisses to Stiles’ jaw. “You can fuck me now. Stiles, please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Stiles says, voice so low it almost doesn’t come out of his throat properly.

He drags his fingers out of Scott slowly, wiping the lube on the sheet underneath them before slicking up his hand again and wetting his dick. It’s Scott who reaches around and grabs him, guiding Stiles’ cock to his entrance, tilting his hips so Stiles’ head catches on the rim. 

“Fuck, Scotty,” Stiles groans, thrusting up slowly, inching in. 

Scott makes a disgruntled sound and rolls his hips down, seating himself on Stiles’ dick fully. It knocks the air out of Stiles and he doesn’t even have time to catch it before Scott’s lifting himself up with his thighs and dropping back down.

(Fuck being a cliche, but moments like these, time stands still and it’s just -- him and Scott and their skin pressed together, breathing each other in, and it’s the rawest happiness he’s ever felt.)

Stiles leans back so Scott has more room to move, huffing out a laughing when Scott grins wickedly and braces his hands on Stiles’ chest before picking up speed, screwing his eyes shut. Stiles curls his hands over Scott’s hips, just to touch. Scott’s still controlling everything, thighs trembling on either side of Stiles. 

Stiles keeps watching him, refusing to let his eyes slide shut. He wants to memorize everything about this. The way the moon shines through the sheer curtains, making everything shimmer. Scott’s hair limp and damp in waves over his forehead, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Shadows play in the hollow of Scott’s throat, articulating the cut of his jaw, the muscles of his arms and chest, the deep vee of his hips with his dick bobbing wetly between them. 

He wants to be able to picture this moment perfectly anytime he wants to. Wants to be able to imagine the sound of their skin slapping wetly, their loud moaning in the dark, bitten off words, each other’s names curling sweetly off their tongues. 

He wants to feel this -- this fucking feeling in his chest, warm and terrifying in the way that it’s suffocating him, heart leaping in his throat when Scott finally opens his eyes. The look on his face is so fucking tender, Stiles feels his internal organs turn to slush. 

It’s too much. He’s _drowning_ in emotions. That needs to stop immediately, before he chokes on the heaviness of the moment. 

He wraps his arm around Scott’s waist and flips them, grabbing onto the headboard to steady them. It might be worse with Scott on his back, looking up at him, but Stiles isn’t thinking about it, not really. 

(He’s trying not to, at least. If he does, he’s not sure what will happen. There are words on the tip of his tongue that genuinely fucking scare him. He doesn’t know how to deal with that at all.)

Their lips meet, tongues sliding together slicky. Scott groans into Stiles’ mouth when he thrusts harder, knuckles white on the headboard as he fucks Scott. It’s a brutal pace, thighs slapping so hard, Stiles is sure there are red marks forming on their skin. 

“Fuck yeah, like that, Stiles, harder,” Scott whines. Breathless demands that Stiles can’t help but follow, thrusting deep and rough. Scott’s nails drag down his back, leaving a stinging path in their wake, hard enough to draw blood. 

It should probably be painful, how hard Scott is gripping him, the way he’s scratching Stiles’ back up and digging his teeth into Stiles’ neck, but it’s not really. It’s good, so fucking good. The sting and the burn makes him gasp out, pleasure rocking down his spine. 

“Probably gunna come,” Stiles admits, through ragged breaths and Scott’s smiling at him, hand going to his cock so he can jerk himself off quickly. Stiles takes that as permission and speeds up, chasing his orgasm. 

When he comes, the headboard splinters under his hand, cracking loudly, a shotgun blast through the heavy air.

“What the fuck?!” Scott demands, tilting his head back to look at the damage. Stiles rolls his eyes and bats Scott’s hand away so he can fit his own around Scott’s cock, tugging him off until he’s spilling thickly over Stiles’ knuckles with a shudder.

All of Stiles’ limbs feel like jelly for about five seconds before everything heals up, but his _soul_ feels fatigued. He collapses on Scott in a heap before rolling away, stomach sticky with Scott’s come. 

“Did you break my headboard?” Scott asks, turning to look at Stiles. 

(He’s the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen: cheeks red from exertion, lips swollen and grinning happily. The thick of his eyelashes like raven feathers, the dust of stubble on his jaw. There’s a brightness in his eyes that Stiles thinks rivals the sun, and Stiles thinks he’s so in love, so in love, so in love.)

“Maybe,” Stiles slurs, giving Scott a silly grin in return. It gets more serious when their eyes meet; Stiles can _feel_ his face going soft when he looks at Scott. The vulnerability feels safe in this room, with just the two of them. 

So of course, Stiles has to fuck it up. When all Stiles’ defenses drop, he gets this urge to be truthful. That urge is worming its way up his throat, obliterating the post-orgasmic tranquility he had a moment ago.

“I’m not letting them walk,” Stiles says, quietly. He’s been thinking it since Allison said: _Scott doesn’t kill people, you know that_. 

“I know,” Scott says, sounding impossibly sad about it. 


	4. Chapter 4

Scott McCall. 

20 years old. Libra. 

Only child. Born locally to Melissa and Rafael McCall. Former: RN lead at Beacon City General. Latter: FBI agent, deceased, murder unsolved. 

Attends Beacon City University full time working towards a degree in biology. Interns at Hale Corps in the department of genetic sciences. Works part time at the Happy Bean. Dabbles in ametuer photography for the Daily Bugle.

Mutated as a result of a radioactive spider bite when he was 16. Pursues bad guys vigilante style as the superhero Spider-Man. Strict moral code. ( _Boring_ moral code.)

Favorite color: green. No pets. Sorta kinda seeing someone. 

Sleep doesn’t usually come the night before a job. It doesn’t really matter, regardless. Missing a night of sleep isn’t a big deal. His longest stretch without a snooze is 10 days. Mild disorientation and slowed healing factor were the only symptoms, but he chose to crash because he was on a job he couldn’t afford to botch due to exhaustion experimentation. He could probably make it to three weeks if he’s determined. 

So, not tonight. No sleeping for Stiles. 

Just watching and thinking. 

Scott’s next to him, curled up on his side. The lights from the city filter in enough that Stiles can see the rough scruff on Scott’s jaw, the slight curve of his nose, his face soft in sleep. There’s a smatter of moles on his neck and cheek. Stiles has already memorized the pattern 30 times over. 

The hypnotic rise and fall of his chest is the only thing Stiles is really focusing on. Chest expanding and contracting in time with Scott, slow and deep breaths that keep Stiles’ pulse at a sluggish pace. 

Facts tumble around Stiles’ head in a loop. He tries to redirect his brain, but it’s stuck on Scott, replaying every moment he can remember. Everything that’s happened between them. A sweet, sticky feeling lodges itself in his breast bone when he thinks about it. About Scott. About him and Scott. 

It makes him too warm, sometimes. A happy buzzing at the base of his skull, electricity in his fingertips like he’s channelling Kitsune or something. He knows what it is, what that means, but he doesn’t really know how to shove it past his teeth, admit it. 

He knows he needs to. Scott deserves to know, but. It’s difficult for Stiles to articulate. 

Or, maybe not. It’s deep enough into the early AM that Stiles can admit that he’s terrified to admit what needs to be admitted. It’s all corked up in his throat because he’s scared. Of Scott’s reaction, Scott’s rejection.

Stiles flexes his fingers on the sheet between them, reaching towards Scott, the pad of his finger tracing the bridge of Scott’s nose slowly, watching Scott’s mouth part with a puff of breath. 

Stiles hasn’t ever seen another human being this beautiful. He’s lucky to get to be in love with Scott. Truly, madly, deeply in love with such a good person. So good that Stiles highly doubts he deserves it, but he’s greedy enough to refuse to let it go. He’ll take what he can get. He’ll fight to keep it.

“Go to sleep,” Scott says, voice low in the darkness, rough with sleep. Stiles huffs out a laugh.

“Can’t sleep,” he admits. 

“Then let me sleep,” Scott says, eyes fluttering open a tiny amount, irises sparkling under his lashes. That sweet, sticky feeling crab-walks up Stiles’ esophagus. 

_I love you. I love you. I love you_. 

“I am,” Stiles pouts, swallowing down his confessions, praying his hamster wheel brain stays silent. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Scott mutters. His eyes are slipping shut again, slowly. 

“I’ll mute it,” Stiles says. But Scott isn’t listening. Stiles can hear his breath even out again, and Stiles matches his breathing, heart slowing back down. Watching. Thinking. 

 

 

Seeing Allison zip tied in the front seat of his rental car is pretty amusing, if Stiles does say so himself. It’s sort of satisfying, in that giddy and obnoxious way personal victories tend to be. Not that this counts as a personal victory, technically, since they’re on the same side. Not that he’s wishing her any particular ill will anymore. 

She’s a truly lovely person, and Stiles can see why she’s Scott’s best friend and all, but there’s that little vindictive part of Sties that’s relishing the moment. Okay, that vindictive part of Stiles is pretty big, if he’s being real. But he’s got an Argent all locked up and held captive, it’s hard to fight it.

There’s a pretty glare in her eyes, which makes him giggle a little.

“At least I didn’t put you in the truck,” he says, giving her a significant look. “It could be worse.”

“My arms are cramping,” she says, scowling. Her hands are pulled tightly behind her back, shoulder blades drawn together. Stiles can definitely see how it’s uncomfortable, but he can’t really take her in there unrestrained, that’s way too suspicious.

“Won’t be too long,” he promises, sing-songy. The look she gives him suggests she doesn’t believe him, but there’s nothing he can do about that; he _does_ plan to get her out of the restraints as soon as possible. 

They’re pulling out onto the street when Stiles looks at her and says, “Pick one.”

If she’s about to ask for clarification, the words die on her lips as realization blooms over her face like a flower, unfurling slowly, eyes widening, mouth going slack. All at once, her jaw sets, hard.

Stiles looks back at the road.

“Kate,” Allison says. 

“Good choice,” Stiles says, approvingly, even though she probably doesn’t need him to validate her decisions at all. It’s most obvious choice. If he’s killing anyone, it needs to be Gerard. Cut the head off the hydra and all that. 

Taking Kate out wouldn’t be anything more than an inconvenience for the family. Despite being a huge shot caller for the Argents, there are probably half a dozen more people willing to step up and take her place next to Gerard, all of them as willing to get their hands dirty as she is. Operations don’t seem to be suffering after Chris left, and Chris was Gerard’s right hand man. 

No, it has to be Gerard. Take down the big boss, and all the others will be floundering. No orders, no direction. If Stiles gets his way, Kate’s going to get bitch slapped with every criminal charge the court can dredge up for her -- even the littlest parking ticket, he wants her fucking booked. Chris will probably testify against her readily. The thought of her paying for the shit she did to his dad makes his stomach go tight with excitement.

What a thought. 

With the Big Three gone, the Argent family and their operations will tank. Eventually, they’ll crumble completely. It’s everything Stiles ever wanted, hand delivered to him by Kate Argent herself, because she wants to be a cliche super villain and _trade hostages_. 

The possibility that they’re setting a trap for Stiles is definitely very real, but considering the fact that no one one their team is a) Spider-Man, b) Lydia Martin, or c) _immortal_ , Stiles can’t really see this playing out in any favor besides his own. 

Everything about today feels like it’s going right. Which isn’t something Stiles can say often. Or ever. Usually, everything goes wrong and he deals with that by doing his damnedest to make it seem like everything's going right when it really isn’t; he _pretends_ things are okay until he’s convinced himself that they are okay. But not today. 

Despite the rather _intense_ events of the past few days, today was good. Great, even. Today, they rose slowly, and Stiles was wrapped tightly around Scott, his chest pressed to Scott’s back and his boner pressed to Scott’s ass. When Scott woke up, a slow and sleepy grind had both of them coming in their boxers, grins pressed to each other’s mouths. 

It was gross, domestic bliss all morning. Showering together, taking turns washing each other’s backs, getting off again in the cramped stall with mild complaining from Scott -- “Stiles, this was supposed to be a _business shower_ , how many times do you need to get off in a morning?” 

They distractedly made pancakes with eggs and bacon, letting a few of the pancakes burn before Stiles put his foot down and set a restriction on _touching_ \-- he was _hungry_ , okay? (Which only made Scott even more determined, because _supposedly_ ‘no touching’ meant mouths were fair game, and Stiles had to deal with Scott’s lip on his neck and Scott’s teeth on his earlobe and Scott’s tongue -- yeah.)

By the time Allison got there, they were a happy giggling mess. Stiles was stuck in that fantasy again, the one where they were normal students, head over heels for each other, homework their only true care in the world, no thought for anything besides what movie they were going to see together, or if it was the right time to meet the parents. 

In that fantasy, Stiles took Scott’s key without hesitation, emotional word vomit tripping off his tongue in response -- a bunch of little confessions that just meant _I love you_ , in a very Stiles way. In that fantasy, it only took Stiles a week to move all his shit in completely and let his own apartment go. 

Stiles would give anything for that fantasy, if he’s being honest. 

Usually he doesn’t think about things too hard. Emotions are best left completely unacknowledged. If he ignores them, it essentially means they aren’t there, and he can live with that. But. Scott. 

It always comes back to Scott. His sun spot. A fucking beacon of happiness in his outstandingly shitty life. Stiles thinks about not having Scott, and it makes him feel like roadkill -- like all his intestines are squished flat while he bakes in the hot sun and starts to really fucking smell. Miserable. Wretched. Despondent. Fucking _terrible_. 

It might be that Scott is it for Stiles, and that’s -- really terrifying. Pretty fucking hard to wrap his head around. After a few years of isolation, focused only on his cause, the whole thing is confusing. Exciting, too, but mostly mind-boggling. There hasn’t been anyone who’s caught and held his attention like this -- not since Malia, before Weapon X, when he was a better person and capable of acknowledging his feelings in a way that was productive and healthy. 

But, there’s Scott. There’s Scott, and every time Stiles thinks about Scott, all these emotions push their way to top of his esophagus like particularly nasty bile, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with it. 

Not knowing what to do with it makes him do dumb shit like blurt out his feelings at the worst possible time. It probably would have happened anyway, because Stiles is unable to express himself like a normal human being, but this was an especially dick move. 

Stiles couldn’t help himself, Scott was just being so _Scott_. 

Blame the reckless abandon that Stiles was feeling, all hyped up on adrenaline, getting ready to meet up with the Argents. Blame the way they spent the morning, all wrapped up in each other, giving him a damn good idea of how things _could be_. Blame his loud mouth, Scott’s devastatingly attractive heroism. Blame anything and everything.

They were in Scott’s room getting suited up -- with the gun holsters and sword frog and the thousand compartments on his utility belt, it always took Stiles longer to get situated. When he looked up, Scott was already dressed -- Spidey suit underneath street clothes, mask shoved into his back pocket -- watching him. The look on his face was impossibly tender, eyes soft with fondness tucked into the corners of his smile. It made Stiles feel so dizzy he had to look away. 

Maybe it was how disconcerting it was to see Scott standing there -- the Scott McCall Stiles knew, but different. Even hidden under jeans and a t-shirt, the suit did something to Scott, made him stand straighter, more confident, eyes gleaming. It was such a transformation. A whole new side to Scott that Stiles got to learn about, got to know. The idea knocked the breath out of Stiles’ lungs with a harsh hiccup. 

Maybe it was the look on Scott’s face, too open and too vulnerable and everything Stiles needed at that exact moment, nerves crashing around his system the closer they got to leave time. With one look, Scott quieted all of that nonsense. It was a miracle. 

Maybe that’s why Stiles couldn’t hold it in anymore, why it all bubbled out of him, quick and careless. 

“ _I love you_ ,” he blurted out, voice loud and desperate. There weren’t many things that Stiles knew 100 percent for certain, but this Stiles did know; a heady, intimidating feeling, not one he could keep ignoring. 

And one he didn’t _want_ to ignore. Stiles was too aware of what might happen tonight -- maiming or disappearance or death or -- he had to say it quickly before the opportunity was lost. And maybe it would be. Soon they were going to be facing down the most feared criminal family in the United States, maybe even the _world_ , and Stiles -- 

Stiles wanted that glimmer of hope, that slight chance that Scott might want him to stick around even after the mess he’s about to make. 

(Things are always a mess. He mentally prepared himself for the worst. He always has to.)

He couldn’t leave without saying it. Just in case. 

“What?” Scott asked, eyes snapping to Stiles’ face, and Stiles felt like he was _on fire_ , face burning. It’s not like he can take the words back. That was definitely not a Freudian Slip. That was pretty damn transparent. 

“Didn’t you hear me, bug boy?” Stiles asked, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes so Scott couldn’t see how scared he felt, knots heavy at the bottom of his stomach. 

“I did, I -- _really_?” 

Stiles gave him an undignified look, truly affronted. 

“‘Really?’” Stiles demanded, hotly, still blushing more than he wanted to be. “That incredulous that I might?”

“No, I -- I just wasn’t expecting it,” Scott said, tripping over his words, but his jaw tilted upwards, hard and stubborn. 

“Well, I do,” Stiles said, in a firm voice, wishing he hadn’t. 

“I think I do, too,” Scott said, looking thoughtful. Maybe he hadn’t thought about it, yet. Not like Stiles, who couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not that Stiles could blame him, they’ve been busy. 

“You don’t have to decide now,” Stiles said, with a shrug, letting hope take up residence in the left part of his chest, warm and comfortable. Hope is a stupid thing when he couldn’t know what would become of them by the end of the day, but he didn’t mind in the moment.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” Scott said, looking at him with that same fierce look in his eye. Anything but tender and soft, like he was determined to make Stiles believe him. That made Stiles laugh, tipping his head back a little helplessly. 

“You’re an idiot,” Allison says, drawing him out of his head. She’s giving him a stern look, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking about. He knows that she heard; the door was wide open, and when they came out of the bedroom, she made a show of banging around in the kitchen. 

“I know,” Stiles agrees. It’s part of his charm. 

 

 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Kate says, as soon as Stiles gets out of the car. She can’t see him roll his eyes under his mask, but it’s the thought that counts. _Honestly_. 

The warehouse they picked for the meetup is similar to the one that the Calaveras were supposed to do the drop at, but a little smaller. One long room with high metal shelves packed in tightly, stocked with miscellaneous items sorted into saran wrapped wooden pallets. The Argents and Co. (henchmen) are clustered towards the front, near some forklifts. 

It’s a good turn out, for a measly meet up with Stiles and a tied up hostage. There are armed bodies on the ground, some up above them on a wrap-around catwalk. Gerard’s off to the side with an amused look on his face. No kanima, but Stiles is sure it’s around somewhere, hiding behind stacks of pallets or something. 

“We need to get you to remedial dialogue classes or something, dude,” Stiles says, with a sigh.

Lydia’s tied to a chair behind Kate. She doesn’t look worse for wear, maybe a little dirty and a little sweaty, obviously a lot pissed off, but there aren’t any visible markings or external damage. The only thing restraining her is a rope binding her torso to the chair. She’s not even gagged. 

Excellent. 

“Get off the villain shit,” Kate snaps, unamused. She’s wrapped up in a leather jacket despite the muggy heat of the summer, two pistols strapped to her thighs. Stiles wonders if she can run in those heeled boots.

He offers her an uninterested shrug and goes to the passenger door to yank Allison out of the car. It’s probably a little rough, but he’s attempting to keep up appearances or whatever. She’ll get him back for it later, he’s sure.

“I have something of yours,” Stiles says, pitching his voice low, purposefully camp so that Kate knows he’s making fun of her. She rolls her eyes at him. 

“And I have something of yours,” Kate says, gesturing back towards Lydia, who’s watching the exchange with a bored expression. 

“And the money?” Stiles asks, because that’s what he would do if this wasn’t a trap. Acquire the assets: Lydia and cash. Well, he’s hoping to still get his hands on the cash once this is all over, but he’s not holding out for it. They need to cut to the chase. 

Kate gestures again, and a stooge brings up a briefcase. There’s a neat row of stacked bills lining the bottom when she opens it. Looks like a decent amount, if he’s judging correctly and they didn’t pad it with smaller bills. Stiles doubts they would; they have a reputation to uphold, and Stiles has enough pull amongst the seedy underbelly of the law to make their lives difficult if they tried to play him.

He’s making their lives difficult anyway, but it’s the thought that counts. 

Stiles nods at her to put it away, tightens his grip on Allison’s arm, and turns to Lydia.

“How are you holding up?” he asks her. Time to cut to the chase. Next to him, Allison shifts her weight to the balls of her feet, getting ready.

“Fine,” Lydia says, primly, before wiggling her shoulders. “A little stiff.”

“Been good?” Stiles asks, subtly shifting his weight as well. “No kicking and screaming?”

“Nope,” Lydia says, breathing slowly, measured -- deep inhales, longer exhales. His eyes flick to Kate -- she looks bored, standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, hip cocked out. Not defensive, not really. 

“Feel free,” Stiles says. He doesn’t have to wait for her to get the cue --

The air trembles as she inhales. One second the warehouse is still, silent. The next -- 

Lydia shrieks, air rippling with sonic vibrations -- Stiles’ eardrums pop and burst in his head, blood wetting the insides of his ear canals -- he fights the vertigo and yanks Allison down so that the sound waves aren’t as lethal. In front of them, Stiles sees Kate and Gerard drop, a few of the other armed guards as well. 

Fuck -- 

The windows blow outwards with a deafening crack, shattering into thousands of pieces. There’s yelling, screaming, probably people caught off guard when their ears burst. Some of the henchmen on the catwalks above fall, hitting the ground with ominous thuds -- the shriek stops --

Stiles rolls over and draws a knife from his boot, cutting through Allison’s zip tie and shoving one of his pistols into her lax fingers, dragging her upright and pushing her towards a stack of pallets so that she’s out of the way. 

There are tiny sound deadening earplugs in her ears that protect her eardrums from certain deafness, and she knows how to shoot the damn gun, so he doesn’t have a problem ditching her to fight the bad guys. He’s confident she can take care of herself.

He sheaths the knife and stands, head reeling with dizziness, silently compelling his healing factor to hurry the fuck up.

“Amatuer move, Deadpool,” Kate says, a little too loudly, but her ears aren’t bleeding, so Stiles’ is sure she’s got earplugs in, too. 

Of course she does, nothing is ever as easy as it’s supposed to be. He can never _spring a trap_ without it becoming some sort of production. 

“I never claimed to be a professional,” Stiles says, turning to headbutt the gunman closest to him. Stiles drags the semi-automatic rifle strapped to the henchman’s back into an upright, forward-facing position to shoot at another stooge coming towards him. The gun pops off, slamming into his shoulder at the wrong angle. The muscles rip, healing factor kicking in quickly. His ears stop ringing.

Adrenaline courses through Stiles, making him giddy. It’s like his whole body is vibrating with the hysterical need to run, even as his hands are steady, mind focused. The contrast makes his heart thud. 

Stiles drops the AK and elbows the owner in the temple for good measure. The dude drops like a stone, and Stiles skips away, dodging the bullets aimed for him. He needs to get to Lydia, but there are too many people with guns between them. 

“Good thing, too, you’re far too predictable for a professional,” Kate says, taking her sweet ass time to get up, unhurried and unbothered while her henchmen close in on Stiles with their guns raised. As if that’s going to deter him. 

“Hey, I resent that,” Stiles says, actually offended. He trades lazy blows with a guard close to him before tackling him and knocking him out with a hard elbow to the temple. “Okay, so you know Lydia’s a mutant. It’s not hard to figure out. It’s out there in databases and everything, even. All you need is a hacker -- which I’m sure you have.”

“You’re an idiot,” Kate snarls, mean tilt to her mouth. She’s up now, dusting herself off. He wants to put a bullet in her head, but he can’t -- or, well he could, but he needs to be a good boy and stick to the plan. “If you _were_ a professional, you would have bothered to question _how_ we knew Allison was with you.”

Stiles stops in his tracks, jerking his head around to stare at her. She’s nonchalantly helping Gerard to his feet, smug look on her dumb face, and -- she’s _right_ , he didn’t question it. None of them had thought of that. 

Obviously Allison got away, said she shot the kanima in the face so many times it ran off but -- the next morning when she gave him the phone, Kate acted like she thought Allison was his hostage -- which means that they had an inkling he’d try to set a trap for them, since he wasn’t actively working against Allison -- which means they probably know about Scott -- 

A bullet slams into his chest and rips him from the epiphany. He grunts, blood seeping out, wetting his suit, and shoots at the closest person, bullet slicing through their side. The gunman drops theatrically, and Stiles uses the moment to flip away, out of the line of fire. He lands behind a stack of pallets holding toddler potty seats. Charming. 

“How did you know?” Stiles asks, to clear it up. He’s pretty sure he’s right. He’s rarely wrong, but it’s best to keep her talking while he tries to figure out how to get all the pieces where they need to go. He wants to kill Gerard, that’s it. That’s all he needs in life. 

“Stiles,” Lydia says, sharply. Her voice is raspy. Stiles wonders if she’s healed up yet. A scream like that probably tore up her throat, considering she hasn’t been on active duty in at least two years. 

“I’m getting to it,” Stiles grumbles, standing on tiptoes to try and get a better look at the floor. Gerard and Kate are hovering at the sides when the guards creep around, guns raised, waiting for him. Allison’s still hidden. Either they’ve forgotten about her, or they don’t care. He’s hoping it’s the former. 

Stiles’ head connects solidly with the wooden pallet in front of him, drawing him out of his musing. The _crack_ is loud like a shotgun blast, splinters fly. 

Stiles hooks his elbow around, slamming it into the head of whoever’s behind him before wrapping his arms around the guy’s neck and tossing him into the nearest set of towering, metal shelves. 

They teeter. They totter. 

They fall. 

Luckily, not in the direction of him. Henchmen scatter like ants as they come crashing down, air in the warehouse vibrating with it. Bangs and thuds echo in the open space; metal scrapes, wooden cases topple. 

He launches himself over the pallet he’s behind and sprints towards Lydia, drawing his sword. 

Kate meets him on the way, zippo lighter in one hand. She sparks it and grabs the fire. It forms a neat ball in her fist. Right, that manipulation mutation. 

“You think we’re stupid enough not to notice you hanging out with Spiderboy?” Kate asks, still so calm, deadly amused look in her eyes. Deadly and amused, really. Ah, so he _was_ right. That was a little careless of him. “Two meetups before you even got to Allison. You think we weren’t watching?”

“I was hoping you weren’t,” Stiles says with a shrug, twisting his wrist, sword slicing through the air in a neat figure eight. 

“And it’s Spider- _Man_ ,” Scott says, swinging in through the window above their heads theatrically. He lands on top of the nearest gunman, wrapping his thighs around the guy’s neck and tossing him across the warehouse like he did the first time they met as Deadpool and Spider-Man. 

Ah, memories.

Much like Stiles, the gunman goes flying into the wall of the warehouse, denting it with his body. 

“Thought you’d be here,” Kate says. Her hand’s at her waist, drawing something out before Stiles can react. She tosses it into the air, chucking the fireball at it. When they collide, the whole warehouse explodes in light and noise, knocking Stiles and Scott on their asses. 

“OP flash grenade,” Stiles mutters, groping for his gun, vision whited out, ears ringing. 

There’s a screech that Stiles recognizes as the kanima, then a grunt to his left. He feels Scott’s presence leave, hears the drag of his suit across the concrete floor of the warehouse, the very definite _thud_ of Scott’s body hitting something -- oh more shelves -- the metal screeches, room shaking as they fall like dominos. 

Stiles doesn’t have a chance to worry about it. There’s fire on his mask, burning the side of his face, charring his skin. Kate’s on top of him, thighs clamped around his waist to stop him from wriggling away. 

“Ah fuck,” Stiles says. She’s too close for him to elbow off of him, surprisingly strong as she keeps him pinned. He doesn’t really have a choice; he presses up, into her hand, heat from the fire sinking into his face -- skin, muscle, down the bone -- bright, white hot pain searing through him. 

It gives him the opportunity to maneuver, though, pushing up like that, closing the distance between them. Kate’s not expecting it; her arms unlock, and he presses, using his upper body strength to send her flying into the pallets behind Lydia. 

The stack splinters, cracking under her weight.

He kips up and runs towards Lydia, yanking off the scraps of his mask as his skin fights to heal. The sword he drew is on the ground somewhere behind him -- he dropped it during the flash blast -- but he draws his other one, grabbing Lydia’s chair and spinning her sideways to cut along the rope --

Somewhere off to the side, Stiles hears Scott yelling at the kanima. “I feel like there’s some bias here. Spider and lizard, you know? You can’t try to eat me just because I _bug_ you.” --

Two solid kicks to the back of his knees send Stiles into Lydia, and they tumble, spilling across the floor of the warehouse, sword skipping away like a river rock. He pushes her up, hoping she gets the hint to run, drawing his pistol and turning quickly, eyes deadlocked on the henchman behind him. 

One easy bullet to the center of his neck and he’s down, blood spilling wetly from the hole. 

Stiles twists like a cat, scrambling to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kate stir, so he runs, eyes bouncing around for Gerard. He just wants Gerard. 

Excitement curls hotly in Stiles’ belly. There’s always this feeling that he gets when he _knows_ he’s going to kill someone. It’s first-date butterflies in his stomach, the back of his skull tingling with anticipation. It’s an itch at his fingertips, begging to be wrapped around a trigger. 

Aim. Squeeze. Fire.

It clouds up his head with red, almost dizzying. 

See, Stiles has been someone else lately. Soft around the edges, so susceptible emotions caused by finding out Scott is Spider-Man, finding out who Allison is. It’s been chipping away at him, making him feel _normal_ \-- sparks of forgotten emotions firing up in his chest. Betrayal, confusion, affection, caring. 

All things he’s learned to turn off, bury. Things that never would bother the _old_ him. The version of him that guns down internationally wanted criminals and power hungry politicians and greedy billionaires. 

Things that don’t occur to him now as his brain sinks back into his training, Allison and Lydia and Scott forgotten. Just Stiles and his target. Stiles and his burning hatred for the Argents. Stiles and his end goal; revenge so close to completion that Stiles can taste it.

Not close enough.

Another henchmen pops up in front of him. Stiles shifts his weight to his back foot and pivots, cracking the guy’s skull with a roundhouse kick. 

The kanima’s shrieks are loud, ripping through the air above him -- the _schtick_ s of Scott’s webbing clearly audible. Stiles jerks his head back to see. They’re on the catwalk up right over his head, kanima’s claws scraping against the metal as Scott jumps around -- throwing himself against it bodily while it refuses to dislodge --

“I’m seriously questioning all those things that say Hufflepuffs and Slytherins are supposed to be great friends,” Scott says, huffing. “You’re not being very friendly.” --

Stiles refocuses on the ground. 

Lydia’s sprinting across the warehouse -- Allison’s gesturing at her from behind her stack of pallets, gun raised in case anyone comes after them. No one does, too preoccupied --

The gunmen left on the ground are coming towards Stiles. Not an active threat, really. A couple up above trying to edge towards Scott and the lizard. 

An arm wraps around his trachea from behind. Stiles can feel the heat of Kate’s fire. He lifts up on his toes and grabs her arm with one hand, dragging her over his shoulders, flinging her off of him. She skids across the ground, slamming into one of the forklifts. 

Gerard is hovering around the edges of the fight. Stiles thinks this has gone on long enough. 

Two bullets hit him in the chest and shoulder. Cursing, he sprints away, grabbing the chair Lydia was tied to, spinning for momentum. He lets it fly towards the nearest henchmen, toppling him into another. Two birds, one stone. Well, one chair. 

There’s commotion from above, but Stiles doesn’t bother -- as much as he would like to recount what’s happening with Scott in lengthy play-by-play, the pacing of this particular scene doesn’t allow for it. 

What he does know is that Scott is kicking ass, coming up with funny quips as he fights. There’s definitely more than one lizard pun, and he’s definitely capable of handling himself, so Stiles lets him handle it, flipping over the nearest stack of pallets to find Gerard. 

Most of the henchmen are down for the count. Stiles killed a couple, knocked a couple out. A couple more are engaging Scott -- or, rather, getting their asses stuck to the ceiling. The Argents didn’t bother bringing more, thinking they had the element of surprise, Stiles is sure. 

They were wrong, obviously.

The clatter of bullets pulls Stiles out of his head. 

Kate’s up. There’s a bullet wound in her shoulder, blood weeping down her arm, dripping off her fingers onto the pavement. There’s a gun in her other hand, levelled at Allison’s face. The barrel of Allison’s pistol is aimed at Kate. Squared off. 

The room starts to vibrate with what Stiles recognizes as Lydia’s impending shriek.

She’s across the room, further away from Allison than Stiles expected. There’s blood on her face, her forehead and lip, some henchman’s hands around her throat. He’s not choking her hard enough to constrict her throat --

The scream tears through the room and --

The henchman’s head explodes in a truly spectacular fashion, blood and brains raining over Lydia like a vile Jackson Pollock painting. Stiles watches as she turns and pukes on the concrete, casting off the body so it drops to the floor. Lydia’s on her hands and knees --

The gunman blocked her scream from having a greater radius, but it was enough to knock everyone in the room off synch. 

In an instant, Kate has her hand wrapped around Allison’s wrist, twisting it so that the gun drops, twisting it even more -- the warehouse echoes with the crack of Allison’s bones as she screams. Kate headbutts Allison viciously, and Allison drops like a stone, knees cracking as they hit the floor, head slamming into to the ground with a great _thud_.

The kanima growls and grunts and falls to the floor with a loud _crack_ , concrete crumbling under its huge front claws. Scott drops down next to it, trying to engage, but it’s focused on Allison, like it was at her apartment. 

_Kate_ \--

Stiles sprints towards her, annoyed at losing his opportunity to engage Gerard. The gunman guarding Gerard is firing off rounds. Two tear into the muscle of Stiles’ leg, but he keeps going, pushing through the pain. 

It’s not like the guy can kill Stiles, but he’s more than happy to help waste bullets.

Kate blocks his first attempt at a punch, free hand working her lighter. Flames engulf her arms when it sparks, like she’s doused in gasoline. It’s fucking hot, air shimmering around them. Sweat slicks up his suit in the most uncomfortable and undignified ways. 

He wishes he had his sword as he attempts to punch Kate. She’s quick, quicker than he anticipated, but it’s not long before he knocks her hands away and overpowers her, getting his hands around her throat, edges of his vision going red.

Scott’s still distracted with the kanima. Allison’s still out cold. Lydia’s probably hidden by now. There’s one armed guard between him and Gerard. 

A gleeful feeling swells in his chest as Kate’s eyes start to bulge, face reddening from lack of oxygen. He reminds himself not to kill her, shifting his grip to the outside of her neck, cutting off the blood instead of pushing down on her trachea. 

Her eyes roll into the back of her head, and she slumps, passed out completely. Stiles pulls a zip tie out of one of the compartments in his belt, drawing her wrists together and securing her. He kicks her body towards Allison for good measure, enjoying the way her ribs crack under the toe of his boot, leather dragging across the concrete as she slides. 

Stiles turns, dusting off his hands in an exaggerated show. 

The kanima is lying unconscious in a heap. The remaining gunman is webbed up in the corner. Gerard has webbing over his hands and wrists. 

Neat.

“You didn’t kill her,” Scott says, sliding up next to him. There are tears in his suit, big and bloody gashes that make Stiles’ hands twitch to touch. He refrains. 

“I didn’t,” Stiles agrees, easily. Fight mode has him more apathetic than not, but his muscles are still tense as he watches Scott’s fingers push at his wounds, blood slicking the bright red of his gloves. 

Before either of them can say anything else, there’s a shriek -- from Lydia, a loud, “ _Stiles_!” -- that has him jerking around in time to see the kanima scuddling towards her. 

Its tail whips out, nicking her skin, and she drops to the ground, yet another unconscious person on the warehouse floor. Stiles sprints after it, launching himself onto its back, drawing the knife from his boot. He stabs it into the meat of the lizard’s shoulder, wrenching it back and forth so that blood spills out. 

“This thing doesn’t stop,” Scott grunts, joining Stiles on its back. It thrashes around, attempting to dislodge them. Scott shoots two chords of web at its head, holding them tight like reigns and yanking them so that the kanima has a harder time wiggling. 

Right, it doesn’t stop --

Stiles rolls off the kanima’s back, somersaulting to his feet before taking off towards the closest body. He needs a gun. 

“Stiles!” 

“Keep it there!” Stiles commands. There aren’t any guns on the unconscious henchman he comes across. Stiles curses. The kanima wails loudly. He needs to hurry. 

Stiles can feel Gerard’s gaze on him as he sprints across the warehouse, towards where Kate made Allison drop his pistol. His fingers fumble for the gun, dragging it towards him --

The kanima shrieks again, overpowering Scott’s control. It bucks wildly, and Scott goes flying, taken off guard. He crash lands among the wood and metal of the fallen shelves, and Stiles whips around in time to see the kanima coming after him, mouth open like it’s going to bite his damn face off --

Stiles corrects his course and points the barrel of the gun at Gerard, firing.

The bullet whizzes through the air. A clean hole cuts through the center of Gerard’s forehead, back of his skull breaking open as it exits. 

Blood. Brains. Remote mind control device deactivated.

The kanima screeches and collapses to the floor.

Stiles drops the gun. 

 

 

**Weeks Later**

“The report you submitted on Beacon City is… lacking,” Lydia says, looking at him over the rim of her Gucci pink framed glasses. She looks unimpressed. Not that he’s surprised. 

“The fact that I had to submit a report is bullshit,” Stiles says, groaning. They’re not even in the same timezone right now. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to try and do the math, but he knows that they’re _hours_ apart, and Lydia decided she wanted to Skype at 3:30AM. 

“‘Got it in and fucked shit up’ doesn’t qualify as a report,” Lydia replies, sighing long and hard. Stiles groans again, slamming his head against the mattress for good measure. 

Okay, maybe it’s a terrible report, but he doesn’t do this. He doesn’t write reports, isn’t held accountable for what happens on jobs. He gets in and out and on with life. But not this time. 

No, this time S.H.I.E.L.D wants a detailed report of why he was there and where he was at all times and who he talked to and why he killed who he killed. How the _hell_ is Stiles supposed to remember the details? 

“That’s the most succinct retelling,” Stiles says. She glares at him hard. “What if I send a voice memo? Can I send a voice memo?”

“Fine, that’s acceptable,” Lydia says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose in a way that makes Stiles’ chest ache with how much he misses Scott. 

A wounded noise escapes him, and Lydia freezes, raising her eyebrows at him. Stiles is _tired_. He’s allowed to slip. He’s been trying really hard not to mention anything, not to be obvious, but it’s really hard. He’s _vulnerable_. 

“Just talk to him,” Lydia says, voice soft. This is a conversation they’ve had before. A few times. It’s been weeks and Stiles is Stiles, so Stiles hasn’t said anything to Scott. Or Lydia for that matter. Besides the usual excuses, of course. 

“I’m on assignment,” Stiles says, firmly. It’s true. Killing Gerard didn’t stop the Argents completely. Mostly, but not completely. There were still loose ends to tie up, operations to put a stop to. He needed to flesh out all the remaining factions that he could. 

It wasn’t really part of his plan, but these days when S.H.I.E.L.D says ‘jump’, he jumps. When S.H.I.E.L.D says wipe out any and all activity linked to the Argents, Stiles wipes out any and all activity linked to the Argents. No arguing, unless he wants to get slammed with first degree murder charges and espionage and whatever else they want to drag up against him. 

It’s funny how he got out of one controlling relationship and into another. Maybe he just attracts the wrong sorts of people. Whatever. After he finishes with this, he’s done with assignments. He’s breaking up with S.H.I.E.L.D and reclaiming his autonomy. 

“You could still call him,” Lydia says. “Text. Email. Send a carrier pigeon.”

“It’s almost four in the fucking morning, Lydia, I’m not having this conversation with you right now.” Or ever, because he knows she’s right; he could do all of that, but he doesn’t. 

The truth is, for all of Stiles’ bravado, he’s kind of a coward. A coward who puts up a huge front, but in the end, hides behind a story’s dramatic structure in order to avoid having to confront his emotions. Confessing that he loved Scott right before the climax was a pretty low move, especially considering he dipped out afterwards, leaving Scott high and dry. 

He’s an awful human, he can’t even deny it. But he couldn’t face Scott, not after the look on his face after he realized there was a bullet lodged in Gerard Argent’s skull, like Stiles had murdered a puppy in front of his face and not an internationally wanted crime boss. 

It was devastating. Stiles is still reeling. 

“How did you know killing Gerard would stop the kanima?” Lydia asks, abruptly changing the subject. He’s thankful for that.

“I didn’t,” Stiles says, with a shrug. “I was going to kill him anyway, I figured I might as well go for it.” 

“Well, you’re lucky the remote was hooked up to his brain and not hidden in his underwear drawer.”

“I would have killed the lizard too, if that was the case,” Stiles says, with a sigh. “Why are we talking about this, I’m going to send a memo.”

“Fine, send a fucking memo,” Lydia snaps, suddenly way more angry than Stiles thinks she should be. “Please remember to explicitly detail every time you engaged Spider-Man, Allison Argent, the kanima, and what happened at the warehouse. I know your short term memory retention is shit, but attempt to keep the bullshit to a minimum.”

“Are you _pissed_ at me?” Stiles asks. It sure as shit sounds like she is. 

“Goodbye, Stiles,” she says, hanging up. 

What the fuck. 

 

 

**Weeks Later, Again.**

They’re in Russia. A giant, underground factory tucked away in some mountains that Stiles can’t be bothered to know the name of. A factory used to produce biochemical weaponry that ends up sold on the black market. It’s a step up from cargo bins full of AK-47s and rocket launchers, Stiles will give them that. It’s probably a lucrative business.

The halls are mostly deserted, corridors echoing with the sound of their footfalls, the flicker of lights, and not much else. The cooling system pushes air through the halls, but it’s still that stale, mineral-filled kind of air. 

“Abandoned,” Kira says, sheathing her swords. 

“Predictable,” Stiles says. They’ve been flushing out Argent operations for long enough that the ones further out, like this one, are catching on and jumping ship before Stiles gets there to fuck shit up. 

Probably for the best. He’s tired of getting a lecture every time the body count is too high. 

There have been a few good busts since they put Kate away. People who didn’t get the message that the family had fallen, still going about their shady, criminal ways. There were guns and drugs and human trafficking. Now there’s biochemical weaponry. 

This is probably the jackpot. He holsters his pistol and sidles up to the nearest door, testing it. It swings open, and Stiles walks in, surveying the room. It’s a standard research lab. The computers in the corner are dead, but they boot up when he finds the main tower, screens flickering to life. 

It’s not password protected. Stiles taps in a few commands, bringing up cases and memos and various documentation that he can’t make out. It’s all in Russian. Go figure. 

“It’s all here,” Kira says, opening cupboard after cupboard, frosted glass doors swinging open easily. No access codes or keys needed. Everything right at their fingertips. “All the chemicals.”

“All the notes,” Stiles says. The paper trails are all there, dating back for years. They didn’t try to scrap any of it. An uneasy feeling settles in his gut. 

“This is suspicious,” Kira says. She probably has the same feeling. Great. “It’s too easy.”

“Right,” Stiles agrees, shutting off the monitor. “Like it’s a --”

There’s two huge explosions that shake the tunnel they’re in. Close enough that the plaster of the ceiling cracks, raining stucco down on their heads.

“Trap,” they say, at the same time. 

Stiles jets out of the room in time to see the far end of the tunnel start to collapse on itself. In the distance, two more charges blow. More cracks appear around them. The tunnel is going to destabilize soon. 

“We gotta go,” Kira says, running past him. Her hand hooks around his wrist and yanks him along with her super strength, wrenching his shoulder a little bit. 

“How about you diffuse the remaining bombs, Kitsune?” Stiles asks, dropping her hand so he can pace her without twisting his arm out of the socket. 

“If it’s C4, an electric jolt will just make it explode all at once,” Kira says, giving him a sidelong look. It’s decidedly unimpressed. “Besides, I’d need something to conduct my electricity to each device. Unless they’re all sitting on the copper piping, it wouldn’t work.”

“Okay, okay, don’t gotta go all scientific, I was just making a suggestion.”

“Less suggesting, more running,” Kira says, darting down the tunnel they came from. 

The problem with these underground laboratories is that they’re _deep_ underground, so that they can go mostly undetected. Which means that there are miles of concrete halls to run through, slightly inclined so that they can get to the surface at some point. 

There are stairs, too, about two stories of them. Stiles’ lungs are not happy about this development. 

They’re almost clear when the wall to their right blows. A chunk of concrete the size of a Volkswagon slams into Stiles, squishing him between it and the wall like a bug. It drops to the floor, and Stiles drops with it, some bones broken, some organs busted. His lungs heave, trying to pull in air.

He snaps his wrist back into place as Kira comes up next to him, dragging him up by his armpit. 

“Easy on the goods, Jolteon,” Stiles says, aching all over as his healing factor attempts to catch up. She smacks the back of his head for that. His right femur is pretty much dust, healing up slower than Kira has the patience for, apparently, because she’s dragging him behind her.

They stumble out of the tunnel, and Kira drags him a good distance away before dropping him in the snow so that she can call for their pick up. He lies there while his organs blow back up and his lacerations heal, cold biting into his suit.

Two minutes later, the whole underground lab explodes. The earth beneath them trembles and shakes, entrance to the tunnels coughing up dust. 

“Does that count as ‘tampering with evidence’?” Stiles asks with a sigh, eyes slipping shut. “Another conviction to add to Kate’s growing list of misdemeanors and felonies.”

“It probably is,” Kira says, chewing her lip. She slips her mask off, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She has one of those dainty black eye pieces, lightning bolt designs framing her face. It’s new, Stiles knows. 

“Diggin’ the duds, by the way,” Stiles says, shooting for ‘nonchalant’ and landing somewhere around pained. Maybe she won’t notice. 

“Thanks,” she says, grinning and looking down at herself.

Instead of going the predictable route of a fox for her Kitsune alter ego, the suit is a stretchy one, solid black with yellow lightning designs along the sides and at her fingertips. The material conducts electricity quickly and effectively throughout. Kira could be a giant ball of electric rage, if she wanted to be. It really is a nice looking suit, efficient as well. 

Scott designed it. 

“You could talk to him,” Kira says, voice soft like she knows he doesn’t want to hear it. And he really doesn’t. He doesn’t like how he’s always reminded of Scott. Everything he does, everywhere he looks. There are all these connections, all this red string leading back to Scott and it’s absolutely exhausting. 

“I’m on assignment,” Stiles says. He is. He still is. He will be, for awhile. “Did Lydia put you up to this?”

“He talks about you,” Kira says, ignoring his question. Stiles pretends that doesn’t make his heart pound. “I-I think he was pissed, but I don’t think he’d be opposed…”

Pissed. Right.

“Scott doesn’t want to talk to me,” Stiles says. He doesn’t know if it’s true or not. He does know that he’s not ready to talk to Scott. The way his face looked… It still haunts him when he shuts his eyes, stomach curling tightly while his brain calls him a ‘coward’ over and over. And he is, he is. 

Stiles hasn’t really been terrified of anything since he got out of Weapon X, but he’s terrified of his feelings. He’s terrified of Scott. Terrified of rejection, of Scott looking at him differently -- like Stiles is a stranger, an unknown, or, worse, some kind of irredeemable monster.

“I think he does,” Kira says, still soft and kind and everything Stiles doesn’t really want to deal with now. Or ever. 

“We can stop talking about this,” Stiles says, kipping up to his feet. The helicopter is visible on the horizon line. Not much longer. 

“Alright,” Kira agrees, easily. That’s what he likes about her, she doesn’t push. 

Stiles tries not to think about the fact that he probably needs some pushing when it comes to Scott. 

 

 

**Even More Weeks Later...**

**From: Onyx Kitten [1:34am]**

**__**Lydia told me to tell you to talk to him

**To: Onyx Kitten [2:52am]**

**__**Et tu, Erica?

**From: Onyx Kitten [2:53am]**

**__**I don’t even know what she’s talking about.

**From: Onyx Kitten [2:53am]**

**__**I just want her to stop talking to me about it.

 

 

**It’s Been Four Months**

“An Avenger, huh,” Stiles says. It’s not actually a question, even though it probably should be. He’s sitting on Derek Hale’s desk in his full gear. It’s way warmer in this room than Stiles finds comfortable. His leather is sweating in very not nice places. 

“Why are you here, Deadpool?” Derek asks, staring at him from behind his laptop, thin-framed brown glasses perched on his nose. It’s kind of cute that all his _colleagues_ wear reading glasses. Only, it’s not, because it reminds Stiles of Scott, and that makes his chest super achy. 

“ _Reporting_ ,” Stiles drawls. There’s something to be said about their relationship progress that he doesn’t push Stiles off the desk. Or punch him, even. Derek’s definitely punched Stiles for being annoying before. “Do you know how many of your weapons we found during our raids? Tons. You were practically supplying their… Uh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek says, even though his face is doing that thing that usually means Stiles should worry about it. Stiles isn’t going to argue. 

It’s never a good time to remind Derek of the fact that Kate Argent seduced him when he was a teenager in order to get access to Hale family top secret documents so that she could steal a shitton of weaponary from them. Never a good time, at all. 

That and the time he got kidnapped are practically blacklisted topics around these parts. 

“Anyway,” Stiles says, edging off the desk and dropping the to ground, bouncing lightly. “The weapons are enroute.”

“You had to come all the way here to tell me that?” Derek asks. The look on his face now is definitely an ‘I want to punch you’ look. Oh well, it was bound to happen. 

“Wanted to drop in on a near and dear friend,” Stiles shrugs. It’s been awhile since he got to see Derek. He knows Derek gets lonely, locked away at the top of his tower like a woebegone princess. It’s honestly with Derek’s health in mind. Obviously.

Sure, many of the Avengers pop in and stay in the apartments Derek had put into Hale Tower when the group formed, but that’s only when they’re not on their own missions or with their… families, significant others, dogs, sidekicks -- whatever they have leftover from their tragic backstories. 

Even when there are people there, Derek holes up in his lab, constantly building new suits and tweaking old ones and attempting to find a way to live without an arc reactor implanted in his chest. As far as Stiles knows, it’s not really going _well_. Which means Derek’s pushing himself harder than he should in order to compensate. 

“Anyway, your boy band is getting a new member,” Stiles says, pretending to be super interested in the ceramic bobble head wolf that’s inexplicably sitting on the edge of Derek’s desk. Stiles would guess that it’s supposed to represent Peter, but he doesn’t know if Derek has the sense of humor for something like that.

“Why are you so curious?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow at him. Two eyebrows, even. 

“Because I’m not invited, I’m never invited,” Stiles snaps. Well, it’s true at least. “Not that I care. The X-Men want me.”

“The X-Men want everyone,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “This is a tight operation, we work with the --”

“‘Best of the best’,” Stiles recites, in a high voice. “‘Not that you’re not the best, Deadpool, but your interpersonal skills are lacking’.”

“Exactly,” Derek says, smile curling around his mouth. 

“I don’t know why I get that lecture from _you_ of all people,” Stiles sniffs. It truly and deeply wounds his ego that Derek freaking Hale -- antisocial, brooding Derek freaking Hale -- gets to be an Avenger and Stiles doesn’t. He had to steal a card from Liam Dunbar’s tiny Hulk ass and make a copy to even have access to the Tower. 

“Do you see any other mercenaries on the team?” Derek asks. 

“The name ‘Hayden Romero’ ring any bells?” Stiles asks. She ran in the same circles he does -- even if she wasn’t as good, she was getting there -- before the heroes of goodness and justice scooped her up and made her babysit Liam, that is. 

‘Babysit’ is a loose term for dating a kid who turns into a really angry Green Giant, but Stiles is using it loosely.

“She’s not technically an Avenger,” Derek says, lips a thin line. Annoyance is such a hilarious look on him. It makes his face go all scrunchy. 

“Not _yet_ ,” Stiles mutters. Whatever, this is stupid to argue about, he has better things to talk about. Like Scott. “So, _Spider-Man_.”

“He’s smart, capable, works well with others. I already offered him a job here after he graduates. Might as well have him on the team.”

“Right, might as well,” Stiles says, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

Okay, Scott deserves this. He deserves to work with the best superheroes, deserves to work in the best research facility in North America. He deserves to get recognition for everything he does, deserves to get out of Beacon City and become useful on an international level. 

That doesn’t keep Stiles from being jealous and forlorn all at once. What will happen when Scott because an _Avenger_? They’re always busy doing shit, going on missions. High profile stuff that Stiles wouldn’t even get to touch if he stayed with S.H.I.E.L.D -- not that Stiles is _going to_ , but still. 

He wants to be an Avenger. He wants to be an Avenger with Scott. 

He wants to be _with_ Scott. Full stop.

“Just talk to him,” Derek sighs, slipping his glasses up so that he can rub at his eyes. “Stop snooping around for information and just fucking talk to him.”

“Who asked you?” Stiles snaps. “No one asked you. I certainly didn’t ask you.”

“You’re asking me about Spider-Man because you’re desperate for information. You’ve never cared who got recruited before, but now that it’s _him_ , you want to know.”

“I asked when Liam joined,” Stiles says, defiantly. 

“Because he fucked up your job in Istanbul and you wanted to know if you could fight him,” Derek says, flatly. Right, that’s definitely true. He definitely did want to fight the little fucker. 

“Okay, I’m leaving,” Stiles says, scraping his dignity off the floor and taking it out the door with him. 

So, he’s plenty transparent, he gets it. After months of everyone hounding him about Scott, he gets it. Everyone knows he’s pining, everyone knows he’s a coward who hasn’t even reached out. Now everyone is making sure he doesn’t get any outside information to force him back to Beacon City. 

If he can’t stalk Scott through their mutual mutant mates, then he has no choice except to go back and see for himself. It’s a good plan. Stiles hates that it’s a good plan. 

 

 

**Two Months After the Tower Visit**

Okay, Stiles took his sweet ass time getting here, he knows. It’s not his fault. He really has been busy chasing the bad guys all around, burning out what’s left of the Argents. It’s not a perfect world, and two more low-level criminal organizations have risen to take their place, but that’s how it goes. The crime world is a hydra that way, always sprouting new heads for the good guys to deal with. 

Here he uses the term ‘good guys’ loosely, since they’ve been leaving it up to him, for the most part. Stiles isn’t exactly a ‘good guy’.

But he’s here now, in Beacon City, watching Scott kick some ass on the rooftop of some bank. This is probably the best way to reintroduce himself into Scott’s life after six months of radio silence. If he’s distracted during a fight, he’ll be less inclined to punch Stiles in the face. 

Not that Stiles doesn’t deserve to get punched in the face. He probably does. He was just doing what he does best, icing someone out when he has way too many emotions to confront. It hasn’t really happened up until now, because he never let himself get this close to people, but it’s a classic Stiles move.

Anyway. He’s been following Scott for a couple of nights, psyching himself up to actually make contact. The jury is still out on whether or not Scott knows he’s been around. Stiles wants to say that Scott’s probably noticed he’s being tailed, at _least_. Stiles kept his distance, but this is Scott’s city, and Scott is very aware of what’s going on inside his city at all times. 

This is as good of a chance as any to reveal himself, Stiles thinks. Might as well get it over with. 

Stiles is crouched on the roof of the building next to the bank, a few stories higher than where Scott is. He walks to the edge and lets himself fall, somersaulting forward to reduce the impact. He refuses to do a superhero landing after he torn his meniscus that one time in Prague. 

“Two against one isn’t very nice odds,” Stiles says, as he lands. 

To Scott’s credit, he doesn’t miss a beat. The two dudes he’s fighting turn to look at Stiles in alarm and -- dear _god_. 

“This is why you don’t attempt mutations at home, kids!” Stiles says, shaking his finger at the two. There’s no way these two are natural or lab-grown. At least not any sort of official research lab. Maybe they’re _meth lab_ -grown. 

The guy closest to him snarls, his skin all gummy where it sticks together. He’s a sickly orange hue, truly revolting to look at. The skin on his face and arms looks like it’s melting, a steady trickle that seems to never end. It doesn’t actually fall off him, just cycles back upwards once it reaches the end of his fingers -- Stiles is pretty sure he saw something like this on Scooby-Doo. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Scott says, voice raised to bridge the gap between them. The sound of it makes Stiles’ heart flutter around in his chest, soothing and exciting all at once. Stiles wants to fling himself at Scott and hug him until they melt together like the Cheese Whiz dude in front of him, but he stays put. 

“Had to finish up some things,” Stiles admits with a shrug, blocking the blow that melty face aims at him. He takes his own swing, resisting the urge to barf when his fist connects and sinks in before actually meeting his skull. 

“‘Some things’,” Scott echoes, with a snort. He’s holding his own against the other dude just fine. The _other dude_ is more of a green hue, less melty and more scaly. Reminds Stiles of a certain lizard he once knew. He makes a mental note to ask about Jackson.

“Important things,” Stiles insists, dodging punches, landing a roundhouse kick to the orange dude’s head. The mutants are obviously new to this whole ‘bad guy’ gig, they’re not very good at the whole attacking and engaging thing. This is the laziest physical fight he’s ever been involved in, but he guesses it’s good if it allows them to have this conversation. 

“Did you lose your phone?” Scott asks, seriously. He’s not exactly exerting any effort either; if anything, he’s just wearing the dude down by dancing around him, trading punches that look way too easy. 

“No,” Stiles says, screwing up his face. He gets a punch to the sternum and an elbow to his ribs for the pause. He probably deserves that, he thinks, as he grabs the dude and throws him into the air conditioning unit.

“You still know how to email?” Scott asks, taking Stiles’ cue and throwing his guy on top of Cheese Whiz on top of the air conditioning unit. He dusts his hands off and turns to Stiles, placing them on his hips. 

“Yes,” Stiles says, sheepish. He’s glad their are masks in place, so he doesn’t have to see the disappointed look on Scott’s face. His heart can’t handle it. The poor organ is careening out of control just being this close to Scott. It feels like Stiles needs to barf and scream and cry all at once. His hands are sweating.

“So, not contacting me was a personal choice,” Scott snaps. He’s pissed. Stiles doesn’t have to see under the mask to know that Scott is well and truly angry. Some of Stiles’ bravado shrinks down. Not that he had much to begin with, he came to Beacon City pre-humbled. Humbled before Scott was able to humble him. A humble bee, really.

The two dudes are groaning, but not attempting to get up so Stiles lets them be. 

“It might have been,” Stiles admits. He doesn’t know if he should feel defensive or repentant. Probably the latter, but it’s Stiles, and he can’t do anything without defending himself. It’s not his _best_ quality. “I have my reasons.”

“You said what you said, then the warehouse happened, and _then_ you just left!” 

“I’ve been busy!” Stiles says, throwing up his arms. “What if I needed time for myself? I had to finish everything up. I didn’t want to be distracted.”

“Oh, now I’m a distraction?” Scott asks, incredulously. “You can’t say something like that and then abandon ship. Makes it really hard to believe you.”

Stiles’ brain grinds to a halt. Why would Scott think _that_?

“That’s the last thing you should doubt,” Stiles says, edge to his voice, razor sharp. The way he feels about Scott is something he’s completely sure about. No matter what his brain decides to throw out -- unimportant facts and memories -- no matter what, that is Stiles true. 

“How am I supposed to know that?” Scott demands, flinging his hands out in frustration. “You up and left, you said that and-and didn’t bother _proving_ it --”

“ _Proving it_ \--”

“Oi! Are you guys having a fucking domestic?”

The third voice yanks Stiles and Scott out of their conversation, heads whipping around to stare at the blue scaley mutant. His friend still isn’t trying to get up, but this one is _looking at them_. Stiles draws his gun, but Scott beats him to it, unloading a shitton of web that pins him in place. 

“None of that,” Scott says, waving his hand at Stiles’ gun. Stiles holsters it with a scowl that Scott can’t actually see. 

“Well hopefully you don’t suffocate the orange one to death,” Stiles snaps, folding his arms over his chest. In the distance, Stiles can hear the sound of police helicopters. They should probably leave. 

Scott seems to get that, too. He looks at Stiles for a brief moment before shooting a web towards the building Stiles came from, pulling himself up along with it. Stiles curses and runs after him, scaling the wall and hopping over the ledge. 

Once both his boots land on the roof, he’s being slammed into the low wall, bricks digging into his back. Scott’s body is all pressed along his. Stiles lets out a less than voluntary groan, fisting his hands in the front of Scott’s suit, over the giant spider emblem. He doesn’t know whether or not he’s still supposed to be pissed, so he waits. 

“You _left_ ,” Scott says, and -- Stiles can hear his voice crack on the last word. The sound makes shame flare hotly in Stiles’ chest. 

“Yeah, I did,” Stiles says. He can’t hang his head without knocking their skulls together, so he lets his body go slack. He’s not going to _fight_ Scott. He doesn’t want to argue about this. He came here to apologize, to ask for forgiveness, to try to fix what he fucked up. 

“You left and you didn’t talk to me,” Scott says. 

The sound of helicopter blades cuts off any response Stiles might have had, loud and heavy, churning the air around them. Police officers hit the roof where they just were with heavy thuds, the whizz of zip cables barely audible with the noise of the rotor.

They should probably go --

The heat of Scott’s body leaves as he draws back, but he doesn’t go far, hand slipping around Stiles’ wrist to tug him along. The doorknob to the access door breaks under Scott’s hand, door swinging open. They stand on the landing just inside the door, watching each other. 

Scott’s still hanging onto him. Stiles doesn’t ever want him to let go. 

“You left and you didn’t talk to me,” Scott says, again. It’s easy to hear him with the door shut, darkness closing in around them. The stairwell echoes slightly. Stiles wonders what kind of building they’re in. If anyone will interrupt them, if it matters.

“I did,” Stiles admits. An apology lurches in the back of his throat, but it doesn’t feel like enough. “I was stupid and scared --”

“Scared?” Scott laughs, a little huff of breath that’s more annoyed than amused. “You’re Deadpool, you don’t do scared.”

“I do when-when it’s you,” Stiles admits, tripping over his words, the lump in his throat. “I do when I’m in love.”

“You _left_ ,” Scott says, grip tightening. Stiles feels it like a lightning strike, warm and shocking. He wishes he could see Scott’s eyes, the look on his face. He wants to know what Scott is thinking, how he feels. He wants it, and he’s terrified of it. 

“I did,” Stiles says, again. “I’m not going to do it again. I mean, I will if _you_ want me to, but I’m not going to up and leave if you want me to stay. Not again. I’m done being scared. I -- I don’t even know if you want me to stay, or if you’re single, so I probably sound like an idiot, but --”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Scott says, voice a low rumbling command that Stiles can’t keep himself from obeying, mouth snapping shut quickly. He feels himself straighten, like he needs to stand at attention. 

Scott’s peeling up his mask, revealing the bottom of his face and a playful smirk -- goddamn, Stiles missed his mouth, missed that smile, missed _him_ so damn much. Butterflies start going hectic in his stomach as Scott reaches forward and untucks Stiles’ mask, pushing it up so it rests on the bridge of his nose. 

Scott rubs his thumb over Stiles’ cheeks softly, a barely there touch that Stiles wishes was an _actual_ touch -- unhindered by spandex gloves -- but he’ll take what he can get. 

What he can get is apparently a kiss. A sweet, coaxing kiss, the slide of Scott’s warm lips against his and -- Stiles makes a surprised noise, hands flying up to grab the front of Scott’s suit so that he doesn’t realize the huge mistake he’s making and try to pull away. 

“You love me?” Scott asks, when their kiss ends. He leans his forehead against Stiles’, voice a low whisper. Stiles whimpers.

“More than anything,” Stiles admits. 

“I love you,” Scott says, pressing another kiss to Stiles’ lips. It’s hard to kiss back when he’s grinning so damn wide, but Stiles manages, just barely.

“Can I stay?” Stiles asks, feeling stupid for it, but he needs to know. He needs Scott’s permission. He needs to know that what he did at the warehouse, what he’s done his whole career, isn’t something that’s going to make Scott stop wanting him. He needs to know that he can fuck up and come back, because he’s messy. He’s messy and he’s emotional and he hates that about himself, but most of all, he needs Scott, and he needs Scott to understand. 

“Please,” Scott says. Another kiss against his lips, this time more desperate, more demanding. They melt into each other, sink into the wall, grip each other with bruising force. All Stiles can think is _don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go_. 

“Please stay,” Scott says. It feels like a bullet to the heart, like Scott is cracking open his rib cage and making all his vulnerabilities spill out. It feels like falling out of the sky, like smacking into the ground, like a car crash, like flying, like -- love, Stiles thinks, dizzy with it. 

Dizzy with Scott’s heat and the feeling of Scott, so solid under his hands. Right there and _real_ \-- some sort of destabilizing shock of reality as Stiles realizes that it’s over. Everything is over. Weapon X, the Argents, S.H.I.E.L.D -- there’s no revenge to be had, nobody to fuck up right at this moment. 

There’s just him and Scott, on this stairwell, clinging to each other, and god. Stiles is never letting go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm cryin' y'all, it's done. I hope you love it as much as I do. <3

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/)


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